Tor  hp  ttdS levere (we dt  hysT3ed(les, 

cs  dad  in^Bldk  or 

Df  Aristotle  and  hisT^hilosophie 
hdnTlpbes  nche  orTilhele  oraay  Sautne 


• 


- 


LONG    EVER   AGO 


BOOKS  BY 
RUPERT   HUGHES 

LONG    EVER    AGO 

WE  CAN'T  HAVE  EVERYTHING 

IN    A    LITTLE    TOWN 

THE   THIRTEENTH   COMMANDMENT 

CLIPPED   WINGS 

WHAT  WILL   PEOPLE   SAY? 

THE   LAST   ROSE   OF   SUMMER 

EMPTY   POCKETS 


HARPER  &   BROTHERS,    NEW   YORK 
ESTABLISHED    1817 


THERE,    FACING    HIM, 


WAS   HIS   OWN    UNIFORM    DRAWN 
SALUTING    HIM 


[see  p.  icy 
UP    ERECT    AND 


LONG   EVER  AGO 


BY 

RUPERT  HUGHES 

Author  of  "  We  Can't  Have  Everything" 
"  The  Thirteenth  Commandment,"  Etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  V  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND    LONDON 


LONG  EVER  AGO 

Copyright.  1918.  by  Harper  &  Brothera 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March,  1918 


TO 

THE  FIGHTING  69TH 

NOW    THE     165TH     INFANTRY 

WITH     HOMAGE     AND     WITH     ENVY 

THE   69TH    IN    FRANCE   AND    I    NOT   WITH   THEM! 


961733 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA i 

II.  MICHAELEEN!  MICHAELAWN! 21 

III.  SENT  FOR  OUT 45 

IV.  EXCEPT  HE  WERE  A  BIRD 86 

V.  LONG  EVER  AGO 116 

VI.  AT  THE  BACK  OF  GODSPEED 146 

VII.  CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  His  WAY     ....  189 

VIII.  THE  AFTER-HONOR 221 

IX.  THE  BITTERNESS  OF  SWEETS 250 

X.  IMMORTAL  YOUTH 281 


LONG    EVER   AGO 


LONG    EVER 


i 

THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

"TF  it  werrunt  for  us  Murphys  there'd  be  no  United 

1  Shtates  here  whativer." 

Mrs.  Morahan  had  a  decided  leaning  toward  politeness, 
but  this  was  too  much,  especially  as  she  had  no  Murphy 
blood  in  her.  She  protested: 

"Ah,  what  talk  have  you  now,  Mr.  Murphy?  It's 
Coloombus  you're  thinkin'  of,  belike." 

"Coloombus  me  eye!  It's  the  thruth  I'm  givin'  you, 
did  you  but  know  it  when  you  seen  it,"  the  old  man 
howled.  "A  Murphy  saved  this  counthry  once  and  a 
Murphy  will  save  it  again  if  need  be." 

Mrs.  Morahan  laughed  the  braggart  to  scorn. 

"A  Murphy  saved  this  country!  We  see  ducks!" 
She  brought  down  on  her  not  only  an  old  man's  wrath, 
but  an  old  man's  argument.  She  was  calling  on  her 
cousin  Ellen,  who  had  married  a  Murphy  and  had  more 
children  than  luck  of  the  match.  It  was  a  "long  family" 
and  never  short  of  disaster  in  one  place  or  other.  Ellen 
had  a  plenty  to  say  to  her  cousin  Delia,  but  the  old  man 
kept  breaking  in  on  the  pleasant  exchange  the  women 
were  making  of  their  sorrows  and  the  sorry  romances  of 
their  children. 

i 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Mrs.  Murphy  wanted  to  discuss  especially  her  boy 
Thady's  infatuation  for  Minnie  O'Fee,  a  high-headed,  cool- 
souled,  laughing/  raiiihg  thing,  and  very  crool  to  Thady, 
who  was  meek  and  solemn  with  hardly  a  laugh  in  him, 
one  of  ^thosetmusii^l^cre^ti^res,  a  frightenable  Irishman. 

"That  O'Fee  gerl  is  what  they  call  the  icy  Irish,"  Mrs. 
Murphy  was  saying,  "and  thinks  herself  too  good  for  my 
poor  Thady,  who  has  a  heart  cookin'  in  him  that's  that 
warrum  you  would  think  it  was  a  sod  of  turf  was  un 
der  it." 

It  was  this  that  had  started  the  old  man  from  his  ap 
parent  sleep. 

"An  O'Fee  puttin'  herself  above  a  Murphy,  did  you 
say?"  he  croaked. 

Mrs.  Murphy  tried  to  keep  him  out  by  a  mild  disclaimer : 
"It's  not  so  much  that  she  puts  the  O'Fees  higher,  pa, 
but  that  she  puts  us  Murphys  lower.  But,  as  I'm  tellin' 
you,  Delia — " 

"Who  is  it  puts  the  Murphys  down?"  the  old  man 
shrilled.  "Bring  her  here  and  I'll  tell  her  who  the 
Murphys  are." 

"Yes,  pa,  sure  and  I  will  that.  And,  Delia,  what  I 
stairted  to  say  was — " 

"What  counthry  did  the  O'Fees  iver  save,  will  you 
tell  me  that?"  Terence  demanded.  Then  he  laid  claim 
to  the  rescue  of  the  country  from  destruction,  and  Mrs. 
Morahan,  who  had  never  heard  the  story,  brought  his 
wrath  about  her  by  her  skepticism. 

Mrs.  Murphy  rescued  her  from  the  old  man's  one  story 
by  beckoning  her  out  into  the  kitchen.  And  there  they 
found  the  boy  Thady  slumped  in  a  chair  and  absent- 
mindedly  peeling  potatoes.  His  thoughts  were  so  far 
away  that  he  had  cut  his  thumb  and  did  not  know  it. 

His  mother  ran  to  him,  crying :  "  Is  it  a  beet  that  pitatie 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

is?   I  don't  know.     No,  it  is  not.     It's  himself  he's  after 
parin'.     Och,  boy  dear!  what's  on  you  at  all?" 

Thady,  startled  back  to  earth,  stared  at  his  mother, 
at  her  guest,  then  at  his  thumb,  the  while  a  rush  of  scarlet 
ran  up  his  peppery  face  into  his  burnt-clay  hair. 

His  mother  fussed  about  for  a  rag,  dragged  him  to  the 
faucet,  washed  his  thumb,  and  put  a  large  nightcap  on  it, 
scolding  him  lovingly. 

"I'm  sorry,  ma,"  he  said,  "but  I  fell  to  thinkin'." 

"Which  of  the  two  was  you  thinkin'  of,  the  gerl  or  the 
rigiment?" 
'  "The  two  of  them,  ma." 

Mrs.  Morahan  gazed  at  him  so  woefully  that  he  turned 
to  her  for  sympathy. 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Morahan,  ma  won't  let  me  go  to  the 
war  with  the  Sixty-nint'  like  I  want  to.  I'm  not  twinty- 
wan  yet  and  I  had  to  have  her  consint  and  I'm  over 
young  for  to  be  drafted.  And  now  the  Sixty-nint'  has 
gone  to  France,  and  I  not  wit'  them.  The  Sixty-nint' 
has  gone  to  France  and  I  not  wit*  them!" 

That  thought  kept  keening  through  his  soul  like  the 
incessant  refrain  of  the  mourning  women  at  a  wake. 

Mrs.  Morahan  understood  the  boy's  sorrow,  but  she 
understood  his  mother's  sorrow  better,  for  she  had  three 
sons  of  her  own  gone  or  going  across  the  long  water.  She 
shook  her  head  bewilderingly  between  the  two  sympathies. 

Mrs.  Murphy  spoke  in:  "He's  needed  here  at  home. 
And  I'm  not  like  some  of  these  mothers  that  sinds  their 
lads  off  and  cries  aisy  and  comfortable  and  gits  used  to 
it.  I  cannot  give  Thady  up.  Besides,  he's  not  able  for 
going,  he  fallin'  off  the  thruck  he  dhrove  and  the  harse 
dancin'  on  him  only  lasht  week.  And  how  would  he  be 
goin'  away  to  wars  and  lavin'  his  bit  of  a  colleen  dhu  to 
mourn  for  'um?" 
2  3 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"My  colleen!  mourn  me!  Divil  a  much  she'd  that. 
She  that  won't  look  at  me  for  not  havin*  a  uniform  on." 

"And  if  you  had  one  on  it's  little  seein'  she'd  see  of 
you,  for  wouldn't  you  be  off  to  France  this  instant 
minyute?  That  you  would!  And  she  a  Prodestan',  of  all 
things." 

"No!"  gasped  Mrs.  Morahan.  "It's  onpossible."  She 
considered,  and  gasped  again:  "  'Tis  true  the  O'Fees 
are  Protestants.  Oh,  Thady,  and  are  there  not  nice  gerls 
enough  to  be  had  without  goin'  among  the  hay  then?" 

Thady  writhed  in  his  withes.  "I'll  give  her  up  if  ma 
will  let  me  go  to  the  war." 

His  mother  laughed  in  her  security.  "It's  much  you 
would  give  up,  you  that's  just  after  sayin'  she  won't 
look  at  you." 

This  hurt  him  so  cruelly  that  Mrs.  Morahan  interceded 
for  him. 

"Be  aisy  with  him  for  a  while  just.  He'll  grow  past 
that  gerl  and  he'll  forget  the  war  when  he  gets  to  earnin' 
the  big  money  on  his  nice  high  truck  again.  Sure,  he  is  as 
ilegant  a  truck-driver  as  iver  I  seen." 

Thady  was  inconsolable  under  a  burden  of  humiliations. 
His  wild  young  heart  flung  from  battle-zest  to  love-longing, 
and  he  was  denied  comfort  in  either  quarter. 

Mrs.  Murphy  was  used  to  his  moping.  She  turned  to 
Mrs.  Morahan  with  a  cordial,  "Let  you  sit  down  and  take 
the  weight  off  your  feet  while  I  wet  you  a  dish  of  tay." 

Mrs.  Morahan  looked  at  the  kitchen  clock,  said  that  she 
ought  to  be  gone,  and  sat  down. 

"That  clock  is  fast,  if  any,"  said  Mrs.  Murphy,  answer 
ing  her  look. 

She  was  just  rattling  in  the  tea-caddy  when  a  fierce 
pounding  on  the  floor  and  the  shrill  voice  of  the  old  man 
shook  the  air. 

4 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

"Is  it  murtherin*  the  old  one  some  one  is,  within  in 
there?"  gasped  Mrs.  Morahan. 

"Och,  blathers,  it's  his  tay  he  wants,  and  you  to  listen 
to  him  talk.  There'll  be  no  kapin'  him  quite  without  you 
sit  by  him  a  while,  the  divil  blisther  him  for  an  old 
nuisance!" 

"Ah!  sure!  and  it's  me  will  listen  to  the  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Morahan. 

The  two  women  returned  to  the  parlor  where  Terence 
sat  in  his  daughter-in-law's  house  as  if  it  were  his  own 
throne-room.  She  put  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  hand  he  sent 
forth  gropingly  and  shook  her  head  over  him  in  doleful 
patience. 

The  worst  of  all  Ellen's  miseries  was  the  eternal  pres 
ence  of  her  husband's  sickly  father  in  the  little  flat  they 
had.  Old  Terence  was  a  "dark"  man,  being  blind;  and 
irritable,  being  old.  He  had  also  been  irritable  when  he 
was  young. 

All  day  he  filled  the  best  window,  though  he  could  see 
nothing;  he  said  he  liked  to  "feel  the  view."  He  could 
feel  the  meals  as  well;  his  stomach  was  like  a  clock  in 
him.  And  when  food-time  arrived  he  would  go  whacking 
to  the  dining-room  and  set  him  down  at  table  whether 
the  food  was  prompt  or  not,  to  the  great  annoyance  of 
Mrs.  Murphy,  who  had  often  good  reasons  enough  for  the 
lateness  of  her  meals,  one  of  them  being  the  difficulty 
of  getting  food  and  fuel,  and  two  of  them  latterly  the 
bad  legs  she  had  on  her. 

Terence  fussed  over  his  meals  as  if  he  had  earned  them, 
as  if  it  mattered  much  what  he  worried  with  his  old 
chops.  He  had  a  high,  quavering  voice  like  a  bagpipe 
with  the  wind  failing  in  it.  And  his  daughter-in-law 
hated  him  tenderly,  but  treated  him  with  loving  severity. 

Mrs.  Morahan  had  hoped  to  gulp  her  tea,  exchange  a 

5 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

bit  of  weather  complaint,  and  get  home  to  her  own  supper, 
but  as  soon  as  Terence  had  wet  his  whistle  with  the  first 
gulp  of  tea  he  returned  to  the  story  she  had  fled  from 
before. 

"Mrs.  Morahan,  ma'am  kindly,  did  I  hear  you  aright 
when  you  misdoubted  a  Murphy  savin'  this  counthry?" 

Mrs.  Morahan  could  be  stubborn  at  bay.  She  answered, 
stoutly,  "If  so  he  did,  it's  me  has  never  heard  of  it." 

"Then  it's  time  you  did." 

"Another  time,  Mr.  Murphy.  I  must  be  shankin'  along." 

Thady's  sad  face  was  suddenly  aglow  as  if  some  one 
had  stuck  a  candle  in  it. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Morahan  dear,  and  if  you've  never  heard 
grandpa  tell  how  a  Murphy  saved  the  country,  don't  you 
lose  no  more  time.  Tell  her,  grandpa.  I'll  get  the  map." 

Ellen  angrily  motioned  the  boy  to  sit  still,  but  he 
hurried  over  to  a  shelf  where  there  was  an  old  chart  of 
New  York  State.  He  hastened  back  with  it  to  his  grand 
father's  side  and  spread  the  map  open  across  the  old 
man's  old  crutchy  legs. 

Terence  patted  his  shoulder  with  a  hand  like  a  frayed 
whisk-broom,  and  said,  "He  has  the  soul  of  a  soldier, 
and  we  rade  the  newspapers  thegither.  Don't  we,  boyo?" 

Thady  fairly  glistened  with  pride  as  he  answered, 
"That  we  do!  So  listen  now,  Mrs.  Morahan;  ma,  do 
you  listen  now!" 

"Listen?"  Ellen  groaned.  "And  who  is  it  but  me  has 
heard  it  this  twinty  times  twinty-odd!  Sure,  I  could  tell 
it  backward." 

"And  that's  the  way  you  understand  it,"  Terence 
snapped.  "  Hould  yer  whist  and  hear  it  again.  'Tis  that 
simple  it  can  be  made  plain  to  a  woman  itself  if  Mrs. 
Morahan  will  have  the  sinse  and  raison  to  kape  quite  and 
pay  attintion." 

6 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

There  was  no  resisting  so  helpless  a  tyrant.  Ellen 
with  a  grimace  picked  up  her  knitting  and  raced  her 
needles  at  top  speed.  Delia  sat  by  her  watching  the 
stitches  she  made. 

Delia  had  a  woman  s  nose  for  news  in  the  sewing  line, 
but  she  paid  no  more  heed  to  Terence's  lecture  than  was 
necessary  to  make  him  think  that  she  was  spellbound 
by  his  little  family  epic.  It  was  a  trick  she  had  learned 
in  self-defense  from  her  husband's  occasional  chatter  on 
uninteresting  topics.  Her  ear  and  her  tongue  conspired 
to  echo  a  few  words  here  and  there,  leaving  her  mind  free 
for  its  own  wanderings. 

Terence,  like  Thady,  had  the  warrior  spirit.  It  blazed 
in  his  rickety  frame.  He  had  lost  his  eyes  at  Omdurman  as 
an  old  soldier  in  the  British  armies.  A  wounded  Mahdist 
calling  for  water  had  knifed  him  in  the  face  when  he  bent 
to  empty  his  canteen  in  the  gaping  beard.  Even  Thady  did 
not  like  to  hear  Terence  tell  what  he  did  to  the  heathen. 

But  the  lad  loved  to  hear  him  tell  of  his  campaigns, 
and  the  two  of  them  followed  the  European  War  day  by 
day,  Thady  reading  the  newspapers  and  Terence  furnish 
ing  the  comments. 

Thady  wrought  devastation  in  the  names  of  French, 
Belgian,  and  Russian  towns,  but  Terence  never  knew 
the  difference. 

When  horrors  failed  in  Europe,  the  boy  would  read 
pages  from  a  bleary  copy  of  Creasy's  Fifteen  Decisive 
Battles  of  the  World.  He  had  bought  it  for  ten  cents  from 
a  pile  of  books  in  front  of  a  second-hand  book-store,  and 
it  had  furnished  them  with  many  a  thrilling  hour  during 
Thady 's  convalescence  from  his  accident.  When  they 
found  that  among  the  fifteen  battles  was  one  of  those 
celebrated  in  the  Murphy  family  traditions  there  was  no 
end  to  their  excitement. 

7 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

And  now  the  both  of  them — the  veteran  too  weak  to 
fight  and  the  lad  not  yet  permitted  to  go — approached  the 
wonderful  narrative  with  religious  awe  while  the  two 
women  made  signs  and  exchanged  silent  lip-language  over 
Ellen's  knitting. 

Terence  began  by  orienting  himself  on  the  map.  "  Put 
me  finger  on  the  Hoodson  River,  there's  the  biddable  boy." 

Thady  lifted  the  bony  pointer  to  the  line.  The  old 
man  cracked  his  regular  joke: 

"I  can  feel  the  wet  of  it." 

Thady  laughed  and  repeated  it  to  Mrs.  Morahan, 
"Grandpa  says  he  can  feel  the  wet  of  it." 

"  He  can  feel  the  wet  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Morahan,  vaguely, 
not  knowing  enough  to  laugh.  Terence  and  Thady 
waited  eagerly,  then  subsided  into  despair  of  women. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Morahan,"  Terence  began,  "and  did  you 
ever  hear  of  Saratogy?" 

"Of  Saratogy?  Where  the  pitaties  come  from?"  said 
Mrs.  Morahan.  "Yes,  but  I  do  not  care  for  them.  I'd 
liefer  be  eating  a  pack  of  cards.  But  they  tell  me  the 
harse-races  there  is  grand.  Himself,  Michael,  did  nearly 
win  some  money  there  one  time,  but  only  for  the  harse 
bein'  scratched,  he  said — how  badly  scratched,  I  disre- 
member,  but — " 

"Shoo-whist,  woman!"  cried  Terence.  "The  Saratogy 
I'm  pointin'  at  is  the  spot  where  the  fate  of  this  counthry 
was  settled  by  a  Murphy." 

"Well  to  goodness!"  Mrs.  Morahan  gasped,  politely. 

It  was  Schenectady  he  was  pointing  at,  and  not  Sara 
toga,  but  Mrs.  Morahan  was  not  looking,  and  Thady  did 
not  want  to  hurt  his  feelings  by  correcting  him.  Terence 
proceeded  with  grandeur. 

"Forby  I'm  not  a  direct  descindant  of  this  Timothy 
Murphy,  glory  be,  him  havin'  married  a  Prodestan' — " 

8 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

"  Married  a  Prodestan'!"  said  Mrs.  Morahan,  and  was 
startled  by  her  own  words,  enough  to  repeat  them. 
"  Married  a  Prodestan' !  A  Murphy?  Why,  Thady,  what 
at  all  now !  It's  in  the  blood  belike." 

"He  married  two  of  thim,  in  fact,"  said  Terence, 
"though  not  at  the  one  time;  yet  the  Murphys  was  always 
the  grand  gluttons  for  throuble." 

"Gluttons  for  trouble,"  said  Mrs.  Morahan. 

"However,  the  way  I  come  by  the  histhry  of  it  was  not 
from  the  lips  of  Timothy  Murphy,  he  being  dead  fifty 
years  and  better  before  I  let  me  first  keen  on  this  earth." 

"Your  first  keen  on  this  earth,"  said  Mrs.  Morahan. 

"My  Gawd!  the  echo  in  this  room  would  bet  the 
worruld,"  Terence  growled,  then  went  on:  "He  had  a 
letther  written — not  be  his  own  hand — wrote  for  him,  it 
was,  and  was  sint  home  to  Ireland  and  cherished  be  his 
people.  And  I  seen  it  with  these  two  hands,  long  after, 
where  it  told  the  great  man  he  was  held  to  be  here  in 
the  America  he  saved.  For,  being  Irish,  he  could  save 
anny  counthry  but  his  own." 

"Any  country  but  his  own,"  said  Mrs.  Morahan. 

This  deadly  reiteration  provoked  Terence  to  a  fierce 
protest.  "Stop  bouncin'  me  words  back  on  me!  And  if 
Ellen  does  not  quit  clickin'  thim  nadles  thegither  I'll 
ate  them."  He  fell  to  gnashing  his  gums  dreadfully. 

Ellen  put  her  knitting  away  with  a  sigh,  looking  at  it 
regretfully  as  a  man  looks  at  a  forbidden  drink. 

Terence  growled  a  bit  softer.  "Of  all  the  n'ises  a 
woman  makes,  I  love  best  to  hear  her  silence."  Then  he 
pressed  on  with  the  doleful  drudgery  of  a  man  trying  to 
tell  a  woman  a  long  story.  "Might  I  be  let  have  a 
minyute  to  say  me  say  out?" 

A  "Go  on,  for  the  love  of  mercy!"  from  his  daughter- 
in-law. 

9 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"It  was  in  the  old  ancient  times  when  this  counthry 
was  like  Ireland  for  bein'  in  the  power  of  the  Sassenachs, 
bad  scran  to  them,  that  the  American  insurriction  arose, 
Jarge  Washin'ton  was  fatherin'  this  counthry  and  ladin'  a 
flock  of  scared  sheep  around  tryin'  would  the  dust  of  their 
heels  choke  the  roarin'  old  British  line  to  death. 

"Things  wint  from  worst  to  worser  for  the  Colonials 
and  in  siventeen  siventy-siven  the  time  seemed  ripe  for  a 
masther-sthroke  on  the  part  of  the  British.  Bould  Gineral 
Boorgoyne  gethered  a  worruld  of  throops  in  Canady  for  to 
come  pilin'  down  upon  top  of  the  Colonies,  while  ould 
Gineral  Clinton  was  to  poosh  up  from  below  to  jine  hands 
with  him. 

"It  was  the  Hoodson  River  they  were  afther  choosin' 
for  their  stradegy,  the  same  river  you  would  see  rollin' 
down  along  beyant  thim  buildings  if  it  werrunt  for  the 
buildings,  Could  the  English  lay  hould  on  the  len'th  of 
that  river,  they  would  be  splittin'  the  counthry  in  two 
parts  and  privintin'  anny  union.  It  was  like  somebody 
would  hould  the  stairway  in  this  house  so's  nobody  could 
go  up  or  down  or  in  or  out." 

"Up  or  down  or  in  or  out,"  Mrs.  Morahan  murmured, 
before  she  could  stop  herself. 

Terence  pretended  not  to  hear. 

"  'Twas  a  dark  hour  for  liberty,  and  I  mind  what  the 
boy  Thady  here  is  afther  r'adin'  to  me  out  of  Crazy's 
Hisihry  of  theDecissuf  Battles — the  verra  words  I  remimber. 
'The  war,'  says  he,  'was  comminced  in  inickity  and  folly 
and  it  was  concluded  in  disasther  and  shame.  Nor  can 
anny  milithry  evint  be  said  to  have  ixercised  more  im- 
partant  infloonce  on  the  future  fortunes  of  mankind  than 
the  complate  defate  of  Boorgoyne.' 

"Thim  is  his  words,  and  though  he  is  English,  he  has 
the  thruth  spoken  for  once. 

10 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

"Well,  here  comes  old  Boorgoyne  down  through  the 
woods  wit'  a  gang  of  Sassenachs  and  Hissians  and  Indian 
saviges  and  Tories,  and  down  to  the  river  he  comes.  And 
the  Americans  can't  seem  to  stop  him  whativer.  Gineral 
Schuyler  was  a  grand  man,  but  he  could  not  hould  an 
airmy  with  his  one  pair  of  hands.  The  min  of  New 
England  was  that  jealous  of  New  York  they  would  not 
sind  him  anny  min.  So  Schuyler  kapes  droppin'  back 
and  hittin'  back  and  side-steppin'  and  shoo  tin',  but  he 
can't  stand  annywhere  for  long. 

"And  up  the  river  comes  ould  Clinton,  capturin'  forts 
and  ships  and  stores  and  all.  And  now  who's  to  save 
America?  I'm  askin'  you,  Mrs.  Morahan,  who's  to  save 
America?" 

Mrs.  Morahan  was  startled  and  caught  napping  among 
her  reveries.  She  made  a  foolish  hazard : 

"Gineral  Goorboyne,  of  course." 

"Gineral  Boor —  Gineral —  You  poor  sinseless  fay- 
male  woman,  he  was  the  inimy !" 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Morahan. 

The  old  man  came  so  near  to  apoplexy  that  he  checked 
his  wild  rage  lest  it  end  him.  He  kept  silence  till  he  re 
gained  control;  then  he  mumbled  on,  more  to  finish  the 
sacred  chronicle  than  to  instruct  the  woman : 

"Gineral  Boorgoyne  had  one  grand  gineral  with  him. 
Fraser  was  his  name,  and  he  was  the  life  of  the  airmy.  A 
tall  white  harse  he  rode.  And  on  the  siventh  of  October, 
siventeen  siventy-siven,  the  Americans  had  backed  up 
till  they  could  go  no  furtherer  wit'out  fallin'  into  the 
Hoodson  River.  So  they  stud  fasht.  So  Gineral  Boor 
goyne  says  to  Gineral  Fraser:  'We'll  finish  'um  up  to 
morrow  and  call  it  a  day.  I'll  smash  in  their  cinter,  and 
let  you  work  round  to  their  flank,  and  so  bechune  the  two 
of  us  we'll  bag  the  lot  of  thim!' 

ii 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"'Well  and  good,  milord  Gineral,'  says  Gineral  Fraser; 
and  the  next  marnin'  he  sets  out  to  creep  round  the 
Yankee  flank.  But  Colonel  Morgan  was  there  on  the 
American  side,  and  he's  an  airly  riser,  too,  an'  he's  tryin' 
for  to  creep  round  Eraser's  flank.  And  the  both  of  them 
might  have  been  workin'  round  aich  other's  flank  till 
Tib's  Eve  but  only  that  Boorgoyne  would  have  finished 
the  cinter  and  turned  on  Morgan's  other  flank  while 
Fraser  flanked  his  other  flank." 

Mrs.  Morahan  lifted  her  head  and  pondered  his  words. 
Not  that  their  message  interested  her,  but  because  she 
thought  she  heard  a  familiar  name. 

"Did  you  say  Colonel  Morahan  was  there?" 

"Morahan  me  fut!"  growled  Mr.  Murphy.  "Mor 
gan!  Morgan!" 

"  'Twould  make  the  story  more  betther  if  it  was  a 
Morahan  was  in  it,"  she  insisted.  "It  was  Morahan, 
likely,  in  the  old  country,  and  he  changed  it  like  some  of 
these  bog-trotters  gets  rich  over  here  and  throws  away 
their  O's  and  Mc's.  What  became  of  Colonel  Morgahan  ?" 

"He  was  kilt." 

"Oh,  the  poor  man!  Perhaps  'twas  for  the  best  he  was 
not  a  true  Morahan." 

"As  I  was  goin'  on  to  say — " 

"But  at  that  he'd  be  dead  by  now,  annyhow,  so  he 
might  as  well  have  been  a  Morahan.  One  must  die." 

"Some  gets  talked  to  death.     And  now  to  get  on — " 

But  even  Thady  broke  in  now :  "That's  what  I'm  tellin' 
you,  ma.  One  must  die  somewhere,  so  why  mightn't 
I  be  let  die  in  France?" 

"Oh,  my  boy,  have  you  no  heart  in  you  for  your 
mother?"  said  Mrs.  Morahan. 

But  Terence  was  furious  by  now. 

"If  you've  a  pocket,  put  your  tongue  in  it  aad  hoosh 

12 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

yourself,"  he  protested.  "There  was  no  Morahans  I 
iver  heard  of  in  the  Rivolution.  They  left  it  to  us 
Murphys.  Well,  Morgan,  as  I'm  tellin'  you,  was  tryin' 
could  he  flank  Fraser,  and  Fraser,  Morgan." 

Thady,  who  understood  the  frightful  crisis,  was  breath 
ing  hard,  but  the  two  women  exchanged  glances  of 
patient  pity.  They  did  not  even  know  what  a  flank  was, 
and  they  did  not  care.  It  did  not  seem  proper,  anyway. 

"It  was  a  dairk  hour  for  America,"  Terence  shoved  on, 
"and  Gineral  Binedict  Airnold,  who  aftherwards  turned 
informer,  was  gallopin'  round  like  mad. 

"What  put  the  heart  across  in  him  was  knowin'  nothin' 
could  save  the  day.  America  was  that  desprit  there 
was  nothin'  could  save  her  but  an  Irishman.  And  so 
Hivin  sint  wan,  as  she  always  doos — to  ivery  nation  but 
Ireland. 

"Colonel  Morgan  calls  up  the  shairpshootin'est  shairp- 
shooters  he  had,  and  he  says,  s'he,  '  Shairpshooters,  do  you 
make  out  that  gineral  on  the  tall  gray  harse?' 

"'We  doos,'  says  the  shairpshooters. 

"'Mark  him  good,'  says  Morgan.  'That  big  gomeral 
of  a  gineral  is  ould  Fraser;  he's  the  hope  of  the  inimy, 
and  a  grand  man  entirely.  I  admire  and  honor  him  that 
much  I  wouldn't  wish  him  nothin'  less  than  the  most 
comfortable  funeral  iver  injyed  by  a  haro  of  war.  I 
would  not  say,'  says  Morgan,  'pick  him  off/  says  he, 
'but  if  annybody  was  to  pick  him  off  we'd  all  rest  more 
aisy  here  on  the  flanks.' 

"So  the  shairpshooters  hand  him  a  wink  and  a  salute 
and  off  they  go  about  their  business.  And  Gineral  Fraser 
rode  up  and  down  the  line,  makin'  ready  for  a  grand 
chairge.  And  is  it  clare  to  yous  up  to  there?" 

Mrs.  Morahan  was  afraid  to  perjure  herself. 

He  snorted  and  continued:  "  Whin  the  shairpshooters 

13 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

had  their  post  taken — wan  here,  wan  theyre —  I  for 
got  to  tell  yous  that  Tim  Murphy  was  among  thim  and 
ginerally  rated  as  the  shairpest  shooter  that  iver  shot 
shairp.  And  Tim,  the  grand  bouchal,  picks  out  a  nice 
young  three  and  climbs  up  intil  it,  and  so,  as  Gineral 
Fraser  is  ridin',  a  bullet  cuts  the  crooper  off  the  harse. 
He  says  nothin',  but  goes  on  ridin'  up  and  doon.  But 
phwat's  this?  Another  bullet  cuts  through  the  mane  of 
the  harse.  The  gineral  says  nothin',  but  his  adjutan' — 
which  is  a  kind  of  private  sickerty — says:  'Gineral,  I 
misdoubt  somebody  has  taken  a  spite  to  you.  You'd 
best  drop  back.  I  see  a  man  up  a  three  bey  ant  who  keeps 
aimin'  on  you.'  In  thim  days  the  guns  was  not  the 
same  to  what  they  are  now,  but  that  short  of  range  and 
that  long  of  bar'l,  if  a  man  missed  whin  he  shot  he 
could  come  nare  to  knockin'  his  inimy  over  wit'  a 
swipe. 

"So  the  adjutan'  requests  Fraser  kindly  would  he  drop 
back.  But  the  gineral  shook  his  head  and  says:  'The 
only  droppin'  back  I'll  do  will  be  droppin'  forward  on  those 
Yankee  Doodles.  I  think  it's  about  time  to  be  thryin'  a 
little  chairge  on  thim.' 

"He  opened  his  mout'  for  to  say  the  word,  and  with 
that  same  off  he  wint  from  his  harse,  and  flat  on  the 
ground  he  lay." 

"The  creature!"  sighed  Mrs.  Morahan.  "And  was  he 
hurted?" 

"No;  he  was  kilt.  And  it  was  Tim  Murphy  done  it, 
and  not  a  word  a  lie  in  it.  And  now  what  say  you  to  our 
Timmeen?" 

Mrs.  Morahan  was  horrified  and  said  so.  "Well,  I 
think  it  was  somethin'  ahful.  It  must  have  been  the 
divil  himself — God  forgive  him — that  put  such  a  crime 
on  Mr.  Murphy.  And  if  I  was  a  Murphy,  as  I  am  a 

14 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

Lynch,  and  on  me  mother's  side  a  Joyce,  sure  you'd  never 
have  a  word  out  of  me  about  it." 

"So  manny  foolish  words  out  of  you  and  not  that  one! 
Not  tell  it,  says  you,"  Terence  screamed.  "God  save 
your  head,  you  onfortnit  thing — Saint  Patrick's  mother 
might  be  proud  if  Tim  Murphy  was  her  younger  son.  If 
it  were  not  for  that  same  Tim  Murphy  and  the  cliver  and 
inganious  lad  he  was,  where  would  you  be  now?  You'd 
be  mushin'  your  bare  feet  through  the  bog.  I  misdoubt 
Michael  Morahan  would  'a'  picked  you  out  of  a  dry  ditch. 

"For,  believe  you  me,  if  Gineral  Fraser  had  utthered 
that  'Chairge!'  he  had  in  his  throath,  he'd  'a'  won  that 
battle,  and  with  it  the  war.  And  Timmeen  would  have 
been  kilt,  to  say  nothin'  of  all  the  other  Americans,  such 
as  was  not  prisoners  taken. 

"And  so  it  fell  out  that  whin  Fraser  fell  it  was  his  own 
min  broke,  and  not  ours.  Back  to  their  trinches  they 
flew,  and  the  Americans  on  top  of  thim.  A  nice  man  was 
Fraser,  but  he  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  ocean.  The 
Murphys  was  one  too  manny  for  'um.  Tim  it  was  saved 
the  counthry." 

"And  all  by  his  lone!"  Mrs.  Morahan  murmured,  to 
appease  him.  That  was  rather  overplaying  the  compli 
ment.  The  old  man  retrenched  a  whit. 

"Well,  he  had  help.  In  other  pairts  of  the  war  there 
was  others  done  good  work — for  min  not  Irish.  Jarge 
Washin'ton  and  Wayne  and  Greene  and  the  Frinchmin, 
and  of  coorse  there  was  no  ind  of  Irishmin,  but  none 
so  good  as  Timmeen." 

He  smacked  his  lips  over  the  memory,  and  Mrs.  Mora 
han  felt  it  safe  to  make  a  try  at  escape.  She  was  thinking 
more  of  her  husband's  rage  at  a  late  supper  than  of  the 
belated  feast  old  Terence  was  making  of  the  cold  meats 
of  glory  long  forgone. 

15 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Man-like,  Terence  suffered  acutely  at  the  end  of  his 
story  of  war  because  Delia,  woman-like,  had  no  comment 
to  make  on  it.  He  sat  wagging  his  head  in  defiant  pride 
between  contempt  for  the  sex  and  longing  for  its  approval. 

Thady  prompted  him  to  finish  the  recital. 

"Tell  her  what  became  of  Mr.  Murphy,"  he  pleaded. 

Terence  required  no  urging.  "He  wint  on  fightin' 
Indians  and  white  min.  But  a  year  later  he  lost  his 
head  over  a  gerl,  a  Prodestan'." 

"It's  a  way  the  Murphys  has,"  sighed  Mrs.  Murphy, 
who  was  related  to  the  same  only  by  marriage. 

"But  only  for  her  not  bein'  of  the  faith,  she  was  a 
nice  colleen.  Barefoot  she  was,  too,  whin  she  run  away 
and  dumb  on  the  harse  he  had.  But  he  bought  her  silk 
to  be  married  in.  And  it  was  in  Schenictady  they  was 
married.  She  lasted  him  thirty  years." 

"It's  a  long  while  to  be  married  to  a  Murphy,"  said 
Ellen. 

Thady  winced  at  this  thrust.  "Oh,  mother  jewel,  and 
a  Murphy  savin'  this  grand  and  glorious  country!  If  I 
could  only  do  like  him." 

"The  Murphys  saved  it  once.  Let  somebody  else  save 
it  next." 

But  Thady  was  all  aquiver  with  zeal  to  fight.  He  rocked 
in  misery  and  groaned  his  old  refrain. 

"It's  in  danger  now,  and  the  Sixty-nint'  is  across  the 
long  water,  and  I  not  there." 

The  door-bell  rang,  and  Ellen  answered  it.  She  came 
in  aglow. 

"Here's  one  will  console  you.  Who  is  it  but  Miss 
O'Fee  has  come  to  call  on  you?" 

Mrs.  Morahan  slipped  away  and  went  home  as  Miss 
O'Fee  came  in,  blushing  and  giggling. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Murphy,  it  was  not  on  Thady,  but  on  you, 

16 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

I'm  calling — te-he!    Do  I  look  like  a  girl  would  go  calling 
on  a  young  man?" 

"  You  look  so  to  me,"  said  Terence,  who  could  see  some 
things  in  the  dark. 

"Sir?"  said  Miss  O'Fee.  But  Terence  did  not  repeat. 
He  sat  listening  eagerly  to  her  voice  and  noting  with  pride 
a  certain  chill  in  Thady's  answers. 

The  true  purpose  of  her  call  slipped  out  when  she  ex 
plained  that  she  was  one  of  a  group  of  the  lady  managers 
of  a  grand  ball  to  be  given  to  build  up  a  Christmas  fund 
to  buy  gifts  for  the  "Hundred  and  Sixty-fifth,"  as  the 
Sixty-ninth  had  been  sacrilegiously  rechristened.  And 
she  was  hinting  round  for  Thady  to  take  her  to  the 
dance.  But  he  was  either  extraordinarily  obtuse  or  he 
had  lost  his  taste  for  her  sirupy  voice. 

Perhaps  the  thing  that  froze  him  was  her  careless 
confession. 

"It's  so  hard  to  get  men  to  the  dances  now.  So  many 
have  gone  away.  You  don't  see  many  uniforms  around 
town  now.  Had  you  noticed  it?" 

"I  had,"  said  Thady,  with  a  certain  acridity.  "It 
makes  it  hard  for  yous  girls  that  must  contint  yourself 
with  the  ravin's." 

"Why,  Thady  Murphy,  how  you  talk!"  said  Miss 
O'Fee.  "I'm  sure  your  mother  ought  to  be  mighty  glad 
you're  one  of  the  stay-at-homes." 

Mrs.  Murphy  had  been  mighty  glad,  but  she  was  not  so 
glad  as  she  had  been  before  Miss  O'Fee  told  her  how  glad 
she  ought  to  be.  She  did  not  exactly  like  being  what 
Miss  O'Fee  thought  she  ought  to  be. 

So  much  frost  formed  upon  her  hospitality  that  Miss 
O'Fee  felt  the  chill  and  took  herself  off. 

Ellen  came  back  from  the  door  to  upbraid  her  son  for 
his  choice  of  women. 

17 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"And  is  that  what  you've  taken  such  a  kindness  to 
that  you'd  give  the  black  of  your  eye  for?  The  back  of 
my  hands  to  the  likes  of  her." 

"And  mine,  too,  ma,  would  you  but  let  me  go  to  the 
wars.  Oh,  ma  honey,  you  scald  my  heart  holdin'  me 
here.  I'm  a  Murphy  and  I  belong  over  there." 

"But,  Thady,  avourneen,  how  could  I  sleep  nights  with 
the  best  boy  iver  graced  a  mother's  name  layin*  out  in  thim 
terrible  trinches  with  no  mother  to  tuck  you  in  of  nights?" 

Thady's  heart  was  wrung  with  sorrow  for  her.  and  for 
himself.  Old  Terence  spoke  up : 

"Now,  Ellen  woman,  where's  the  Irish  in  you 
whativer?  Sure  and  the  lad  would  be  as  safe  in  the 
trinches  as  here.  There's  min  has  wint  through  many's 
the  wars  and  come  back  with  niver  a  scratch  taken,  and 
did  not  Thady  here  stay  home  and  fall  in  love  with  a 
Prodestan'  and  fall  off  the  thruck?  And  would  you  be 
sindin'  him  back  to  thry  for  to  fall  off  again?  and  under 
a  street-cair  next  time,  belike?  If  so  be  he  don't  wither 
away  entirely,  he's  that  sorrow- struck." 

Mrs.  Murphy  offered  a  desperate  bribe. 

"No,  boy  honey,  stay  at  home  and  marry  your  Miss 
O'Fee.  She's  a  right  pretty  gerl,  and  you  can  have  a  nice 
flatteen  and  be  happy,  maybe,  for  all  she's  a  Prodestan' 
I'd  risk  that  aisier  than  the  wars." 

She  looked  up  to  see  the  ceiling  fall  on  her  for  her  bias- 
phamiousness.  It  is  hard  to  dodge  a  ceiling,  and  she  had 
a  frightful  moment  waiting  for  the  thunderstone  that  did 
not  fall.  The  ceiling  held,  but  she  realized  what  a  strain 
she  was  putting  on  heaven  as  well  as  on  her  son. 

Thady  shook  his  head:  "Miss  O'Fee  was  right  to 
honor  the  min  in  uniform,  but  if  she's  lonesome  now  she 
must  look  elsewhere,  for  I'm  done  with  women,  ma,  and 
with  happiness." 

18 


THE  MURPHY  THAT  MADE  AMERICA 

Poor  Ellen  twisted  her  hands  together  a  long  moment; 
then  she  cried: 

"Ah,  God  break  nard  fortune!  the  two  of  you  has  me 
flanked  entirely  like  that  poor  Gineral  Gurboon  ye 're 
always  maunderin'  about.  There's  naught  for  a  poor 
woman  to  do  but  surrinder.  Thady  boy,  you're  more 
Murphy  than  I  am.  I'd  give  you  the  veins  of  my  heart 
for  to  make  you  happy,  and  there's  only  one  way,  that's 
certain  sure,  so  go  you  and  be  a  soldier,  and  the  lovin' 
grace  of  the  saints  shield  you  round,  O  my  maneen,  O 
Thady  avic." 

A  great  agony  of  laughter  broke  from  him  as  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  crushed  his  mother  to  his  breast  in  the 
sorrowfulest  happiness  a  man  can  know.  He  was  afraid 
to  tell  her  how  sad  he  was  in  his  joy,  for  a  word  would 
have  set  him  to  blubbering  like  a  child.  And  now  at  last 
he  was  a  man. 

He  looked  it,  indeed,  when,  a  few  days  later,  he  came 
home  in  his  uniform.  His  mother  felt  a  lump  of  pride 
in  her  throat  that  made  her  laugh  while  she  wept.  But 
his  uniform  was  of  a  rain-proof  material.  Soldiers' 
uniforms  must  be,  or  what  stains  they  would  show  from 
women's  eyes! 

Old  Terence  had  to  pass  his  hands  about  the  boy's 
shoulders  and  the  buttons  and  the  cap,  and  the  belt  and 
the  collar  ornaments.  It  had  been  a  long  while  since  he 
had  so  missed  the  privilege  of  sight,  but  he  would  have 
seen  too  much  had  he  got  his  eyes  back,  for  he  would  have 
seen  the  faces  of  the  boy  who  gives  up  his  mother  and  of 
the  mother  who  tries  to  fill  her  eyes  with  perhaps  the  last 
vision  of  her  boy. 

He  heard  their  voices  trying  to  cheer  each  other  and 
he  promised  Thady  that  he  would  take  care  of  Ellen. 
But  his  last  words  were  said  with  a  patriarchal  gravity. 
3  19 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Remimber,  Thady,"you're  a  Murphy.  Keep  your  eye 
shairp  like  Timothy  done,  and  if  you  should  find  a  sizable 
three,  climb  it;  and  if  up  there  you  should  get  a  good 
sight  of —  Well,  it's  bad  luck  to  name  names,  but 
remimber  the  world  wants  savin'  and  it's  callin'  for  a 
Murphy." 


II 

MICHAELEEN!  MICHAELAWN! 

HE  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table  with  the  look  of  a  king 
trying  to  overawe  his  unterrified  ministry.  He  was 
in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  his  two  fists,  set  on  end  at  a  wide 
interval  on  the  table-cloth,  gripped  his  knife  and  fork 
erect  like  scepter  and  ball. 

From  under  the  thick  furze  of  his  eyebrows  he  glared 
at  the  butter  as  if  he  would  dominate  it;  at  the  sugar 
as  if  he  would  turn  it  to  salt.  His  long  and  markedly 
convex  upper  lip  trembled  on  a  shelf  of  lower  lip.  But 
all  he  said  was — and  he  said  it  with  a  quaintly  tremulous 
crackling  letter  "o": 

"I  do-ont  suppo-ose  I  could  have  another  coop  o* 
cahffee?" 

His  wail  was  lost  in  a  tremendous  roaring  billow  of  sound 
that  swept  the  house  and  shook  everything  within  or 
upon  the  walls.  At  the  same  time  a  quivering  gloom, 
broken  with  spaces  of  light,  quenched  the  snow-mottled 
daylight  and  veiled  his  baleful  mien. 

A  train  was  passing  on  the  elevated  road  just  fer- 
ninst  the  windows.  He  raised  his  voice  in  an  angry 
howl  and  the  train  tornado,  dwindling  rapidly,  left  his 
last  words  unsupported — sticking  out  in  the  air  like  a 
beam: 

"I  sa-ay,  I  don't  suppose  I  C'D  HAVE  another  COOP 
0'  CAHFFEE!" 

21 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

A  fat,  pink-faced,  gray-eyed  woman  at  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  table  answered  with  unruffled  sweetness: 

"And  why  couldn't  you,  Michael?" 

She  rose  with  patient  labor,  but  another  woman,  also 
fat  but  not  so  rosy-faced,  nor  so  gleaming-eyed,  rose,  too, 
and  said: 

"I'll  get  it,  ma." 

Delia  pressed  her  back  and  answered: 

"'Set  where  you  are,  Katie." 

As  she  would  have  left  her  place,  a  big  man  in  shirt 
sleeves  reached  up  a  big  hand  to  check  her.  On  the  back 
of  his  chair  was  a  policeman's  coat. 

"Ah,  leave  me  get  it,  ma,"  he  said. 

While  she  resisted  the  police,  two  younger  men  across 
the  table  bobbed  up.  Both  were  in  shirt-sleeves.  On  the 
back  of  one  chair  was  a  fireman's  coat,  on  the  other  a  coat 
with  the  badge  of  a  building  inspector. 

Both  shouted,  "Let  me  get  it." 

Now  the  old  lion  roared  again: 

"Set  down,  the  all  of  yous.  Is  it  an  airmy  it  takes  to 
fetch  me  me  cahffee?  It's  meself  11  get  it!" 

He  rose  so  briskly  that  he  flung  his  chair  over  with  a 
racket.  He  might  have  followed  it  backward  to  the  floor 
if  "ma"  had  not  steadied  him  with  one  hand,  picked  up 
the  chair  with  the  other,  and  pressed  him  back  into  it 
with  both.  Then  with  a  flap  of  her  palms  she  drove 
the  others  back  to  their  chairs  as  if  she  were  shooing 
chickens. 

"  Is  it  a  riot  you're  startin'  ?    Give  me  the  cup." 

She  took  the  cup  and  moved  to  the  sideboard,  where  a 
large  tin  pot  sat  squat  on  a  plate. 

Myles,  the  policemen,  wailed  in  his  high,  shrill  voice: 

"Well,  I  think  it's  a  shame  that  ma  has  to  be  cookin' 
and  waitin'  on  table  at  her  time  o'  life." 

22 


MICHAELEEN!   MICHAELA WN  ! 

Delia  turned  so  sharply  at  this  that  she  poured  some 
of  the  coffee  on  the  floor. 

"And  what's  my  time  of  life?"  she  demanded. 

The  big  officer  hastened  to  explain.  "Oh,  you're  just 
in  full  bloom,  darlin',  but  I  mean  that  pa  can  afford  a 
cook,  and  if  he  can't,  us  boys  can." 

This  brought  a  bellow  from  the  lion : 

"And  can  you  now!  What  wonders  you  are,  arrunt 
you?  And  haven't  I  had  in  a  hundred  cooks  for  her? 
Yis!  And  would  she  keep  th'm?  No!" 

Ma  set  the  replenished  cup  at  his  plate  and  retorted: 

"And  what  should  I  be  wantin'  with  hired  help?  If 
they're  foreigners,  I  can't  abide  them;  and  if  they're  Irish, 
I  can't  boss  them.  And  I  have  my  health,  thank  God 
for  all  things." 

"All  the  same,"  the  policeman  began,  "I  think — " 

But  his  mother  ran  on : 

"Katie's  help  enough  for  her  mother — ain't  you, 
Katie? — of  course  you  are!  And,  besides,  your  father's 
not  so  strahng  as  he  was." 

"What!  Me  not  strong!  Me  that  on'y  yisterday 
week—" 

With  the  most  delicate  irony,  Delia  suppressed  his 
uproar : 

"He  has  a  strahng  voice,  and  a  strahng  timper  to  that; 
but  it's  the  wake  stummick  he  has  on  him." 

This  made  the  lion  almost  weep : 

"Me,  that  could  digist— " 

Myles  tried  again : 

"  All  the  same,  I  think— " 

The  lion  was  not  afraid  of  a  mere  policeman,  and  he 
rounded  on  him  as  if  he  would  bite  the  heart  out  of  him: 

"Stop  thinkin',  will  ye?  Who  asked  you  for  to  think? 
If  there's  anny  thinkin'  to  be  done  in  the  family,  lave  me 

23 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

do  it.  And  lave  your  ma  and  me  run  our  home  our  own 
way.  If  you  childer  don't  like  it,  get  homes  of  your  own 
— and  high  time  it  is  you  was  doin'  it,  instead  of  makin' 
your  own  poor  mother  carry  you  in  her  airms — and  at  that 
all  the  time  pickin'  on  her." 

"Picking  on  their  mother,  is  it?  As  if  they  would  do 
such  a  thing!  As  if  it  weren't  the  blessin'  of  Heaven 
that  we  have  them  and  they  can  all  take  dinner  with  us. 
They're  good  children  as  ever  was.  What  call  have  you 
to  be—" 

The  pacif  ying  officer  threw  his  weight  into  the  other  pan : 

"Now,  mother,  father  means  all  right;  he — " 

His  reward  was  a  snarl  from  father: 

"I  don't  need  your  definse,  I  thank  you.  Keep  it  till 
it's  called  for,  will  you?" 

"Why,  pa,  I  was  only — " 

"You're  always  onlyin'!    Quit  onlvin',  will  you?" 

Delia  quieted  him  with  a  gentle : 

"'Ssh!  Such  talk  you  keep!  The  neighbors  will  be 
raisin'  their  hopes  to  hear  bones  broken.  Let's  have  a 
little  quite  now." 

The  old  lion's  ferocity  was  magically  altered  to  an 
unimaginably  gracious  smile.  He  reached  out  and 
pinched  her  pink  cheek  scarlet  and  said : 

"Ah,  you're  still  the  colleen  'gra!" 

She  screeched  with  comfortable  anguish  and  slapped 
his  hand. 

His  laughter  out-thundered  the  passing  elevated  train. 
He  began  to  brag: 

"You  boys  will  never  be  gettin'  wives  the  like  o'  this 
one.  Sure,  and  when  the  Lord  finished  her,  the  patthern 
got  busted  on  Him." 

Moods  shot  across  him  like  the  alternations  of  an  April 
day,  when  burst  of  sun  and  shroud  of  dark  pursue  one 

24 


MICHAELEEN!   MI CH AEL A WN  ! 

another  incessantly.  The  children  had  long  ago  learned 
that,  however  black  the  cloud  might  be  on  their  father's 
brow,  the  sun  was  always  behind  it. 

They  paid  hardly  more  attention  to  his  uproar  than  to 
the  mock  growls  of  a  playful  dog  that  makes  much  threat 
of  fangs,  but  never  fleshes  a  tooth. 

Finally  the  noontime  dinner  was  finished  with  sighs  of 
repletion,  toothpicks  were  plied  with  vigor,  and  each  of 
the  men  lighted  a  cigar  of  his  own. 

At  length  the  chairs  were  pushed  back.  Hands  were 
slapped  on  the  table  in  a  kind  of  ritual  of  farewell.  The 
three  sons  rose  and  put  on  their  coats  with  long  semaphore 
gestures,  and  their  overcoats  after  that.  Ma  ran  up  to 
each  of  them  to  help,  arriving  just  too  late  to  hold  the 
coat  and  just  in  time  to  be  caught  in  the  arms  as  they 
emerged  through  the  sleeves.  She  had  a  kiss  from  each 
of  them,  and  the  father  had  a  pleasant: 

"  'By,  pa." 

Michael  grunted  his  responses  and  stood  glaring  at  them. 
Then  his  dour  face  suddenly  glowed  with  a  heavenly  smile. 

"Ah,  thim  boys  is  the  ones!  Finer  lads  was  niver 
made."  He  worried  his  cigar  a  moment  and  shifted  his 
cargo  to  a  squeaky  patent  rocker  before  the  steam  radiator. 
He  smoked  contentedly  for  a  time.  Then  his  face  suf 
fered  a  look  of  peculiar  sorrow. 

His  wife  and  their  old-maid  daughter  cleaned  off  the 
table,  making  a  dozen  trips  to  the  kitchen.  Kate  hur 
ried  eagerly  to  the  window  as  she  heard  an  elevated  train 
approaching.  She  watched  it  pass,  then  went  to  the 
kitchen  heavily. 

At  length  Delia  came  in,  bearing  the  last  stack  of  dishes 
and  the  silver.  As  she  set  them  down  on  the  sideboard 
Michael  sighed  tremendously  and  shook  his  head  in 
hopelessness. 

25 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Delia  went  to  him.    ' '  What  at  all  ails  you,  Michaelawn  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  moaned.  "Nothin',  nothin'," 
and  sighed  again,  more  dolefully  than  before. 

Delia  fetched  a  chair  from  the  table  and  sat  near  him, 
in  silence,  waiting  for  him  to  tell  her,  and  knowing  that 
urging  would  only  delay  the  confession. 

It  is  a  strange  communion,  the  long  silence  of  a  man 
and  woman  who  have  loved  and  married  and  all,  and 
brought  children  up  to  their  full  growth,  and  who  have 
broken  the  same  bread,  sipped  the  same  sup,  shared  the 
same  news,  ill  and  good,  the  same  skies,  roofs,  weathers; 
thought  the  same  thoughts  over  and  over.  What  need 
have  they  for  talk?  They  think  forward  and  backward 
in  the  same  yoke. 

Romance  seems  to  have  little  of  its  power  left  over 
them,  yet  their  hearts  plod  along  together,  although  for 
gotten,  as  hearts  are  when  they  do  their  work — and  are 
only  remembered  when  some  thrill  of  fear  or  joy  or  some 
ache  of  regret  sets  them  to  leaping. 

So  Delia  sat  quiet  in  inarticulate  sympathy  with  her 
mate.  Now  and  then  the  elevated  trains  would  pummel 
the  rails  outside  and  the  house  would  rattle  and  jingle. 
This  began  to  annoy  Michael.  He  winced  a  few  times, 
abruptly  sat  up  in  his  chair,  and  snarled  at  the  windows : 

"The  devil  blisther  those  dom'  trains.  Sorry  the  wink 
of  the  sleep  mother  11  be  gettin'  and  them  flounderin* 
and  bangin'  and  whangin'  the  night  through." 

When  they  were  among  their  children  their  language 
was  more  or  less  of  New  York.  When  they  were  alone 
they  fell  back  into  their  own  childhood  language  as  into 
a  pair  of  old  brogues. 

Delia  answered  calmly:  "She'll  grow  used  to  the  n'ise 
as  we  have  this  long  while.  It's  so  now  that  when  I'm 
away  I  can't  sleep  for  lack  of  it.  To  think  of  you  quar-. 

26 


MICHAELEEN!    MICHAELAWN! 

relin'  with  the  ilevated !  What  at  all  ails  you,  Michaelawn  ? 
And  are  you  takin'  sick,  maybe,  that  you're  worryin* 
yourself  to  flitters?" 

"Sick?  No  such  luck!  It's  the  black  thoughts  I'm 
thinkin*  when  I  think  of  me  mother  here." 

"Oh,  it's  wanderin'  you  are;  take  shame  to  you  for 
such  words.  Give  thanks  to  the  saints  in  glory  that  you 
have  your  mother  on  this  side  of  heaven  and  on  this  side 
of  the  ocean." 

"But  I  haven't  her  on  this  side  of  the  ocean  and  a 
storrum  is  kickin'  up  the  waves  and  thrashin'  the  boat 
around.  And  she  crossin'  in  winther !  And  this  the  worst 
winther  on  all  the  records ! — narely  as  cold  as  last  winther !" 

"She'll  call  anny  weather  good  that  brings  her  to  her 
boy.  There's  no  fair  weather  whativer  could  bring  my 
mother  home  to  me — heaven  shine  on  her  soul." 

Her  apron  went  up  to  her  eyes  and  she  sat  chewing  a 
corner  of  it  and  rocking  silently,  while  her  heart  was 
keening  within  her.  Michael  put  out  his  hand  and  patted 
her  fat  arm  with  the  awkward  sympathy  of  a  big  dog. 
He  tried  to  make  haste  past  that  theme  to  other  memories. 

"I'm  remimberin'  the  day  I  put  out  from  the  old 
counthry  and  me  sayin' :  '  Don't  cry,  mother,  now,  I'll  not 
be  long  away.  I'll  be  back  before  I'm  gone,  and  that  rich 
you'll  have  tay  enough  for  to  dhrown  you,  and  a  silk 
dress  to  milk  the  cow  in,  and  there'll  be  a  cow  to  milk, 
too,  and  I'll  build  you  a  cashle  that  '11  make  Kylemore 
look  like  a  raided  shebeen.'  That's  what  I  said  thin. 
And  here  I  am  this  day." 

"Ah!  she  knew  it  was  but  the  wild  talk  of  a  boy  com- 
fortin'  his  mother." 

"And  I  said  I'd  buy  or  fight  Ireland  free," 

"Well,  Ireland  '11  soon  be  free." 

"From  no  work  of  mine." 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Who's  done  more?  You  have  but  to  think  of  the 
money  you've  gave  and  the  work  you  done  on  the  com 
mit  tees  on  this  side  the  wather." 

"But  niver  a  fut  have  I  set  on  the  soil  again.  Niver 
an  eye  have  I  laid  on  the  hills  of  Clare." 

"You've  sint  money  home  regular." 

"What's  money!" 

"It's  a  help.  It's  been  good  food  to  her,  and  tay  and 
fresh  thatch  to  the  roof.  And  now,  thin,  haven't  you 
sint  for  her  out?" 

"Yes,  it's  herself  that's  crossin'  the  ocean  to  me. 
And  what  '11  she  find  when  she  finds  me?  It's  that  that's 
the  black  thought.  She  gave  me  up  when  I  was  a  big  up- 
standin'  gomeral,  and  she'll  have  back  an  old  man  with 
sons  older  than  I  was  when  I  left  her.  Where's  the 
cashle  I  promised  her?  She'll  find  me  in  this  old  flat  up 
three  flights  o'  shteps,  and  I  misdoubt  she'll  ever  get  this 
far  up  till  she  wins  on  to  heaven." 

A  train  went  by  along  the  snow-laden  trestles  with  a 
thumping  tread.  Delia  raised  her  voice  and  lowered  it 
just  to  fit  the  crescendo  and  diminuendo  of  the  noise,  as 
she  had  learned  from  long  habit. 

"Why,  Michael,  who  could  be  wantin'  a  finer  place 
than  this?  Always  somethin'  passin*  the  windies. 
There's  no  end  to  the  vari'ty." 

"It's  yourself  has  called  it  a  b'iler-facthry." 

"Oh,  well,  that  was  only  by  the  way  of  findin'  fahlt." 

"Nobody  knows  betther  than  me  that  it's  not  good 
enough  for  you." 

She  extracted  all  the  honey  there  was  in  the  compli 
ment  and  turned  rosy. 

"Ah,  don't  be  flattherin'  me.  Usedn't  you  to  know 
the  cabin  I  came  from  over  Killfenora  way?  And  I'm 
not  forgettin'  the  little  place  your  people  had  outside 

28 


MICHAELEEN!    MICHAELAWN! 

Lisdoonvarna.  Thim  was  the  raw  winds  that  come  over 
the  ocean  and  blew  the  rushes  off  the  roof.  You've  gone 
far  and  done  good  when  you  count  where  you  started 
from." 

"Where  I  started  from,  is  it?  What  finer  people  was 
ever  in  all  Munster  than  the  Morahans,  since  the  world 
was  a  world?  And  wasn't  me  mother's  people  O'Brines 
that  was  Lords  of  Aran  Isles  in  their  day,  and  me  father's 
mother  from  the  O'Flaherties  that  druv  out  the  O'Brines." 

She  had  pulled  all  his  ancestors  off  the  shelf  on  her  head. 

"Yis,  yis,  yis,  yis!  I  know — I  know — I  know.  But 
it  was  a  long  whiles  back  since  your  people  was  kings. 
Finer  people  was  niver,  but  there's  been  richer.  My 
own  people  was  from  the  Lynches  and  the  Joyces,  but 
I'm  not  tahkin'  of  histhry,  I'm  tahkin'  of  modderen 
times.  And  there's  no  denyin'  that  you  and  me  are  rich 
now  to  what  we  was  thin." 

But  comforting  Michael  was  impossible  when  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  be  dismal. 

''Rich  to  what  we  was,  it  may  well  be.  But  not  rich 
to  what  we'd  ought  to  be.  Look  at  Mattoo  Carmody. 
Carmody  he  come  out  in  the  same  boat  with  us  and  now 
he  owns  a  fleet  of  boats.  He  owns  banks  and  stores  and 
he's  got  a  pocketful  of  railroads." 

"But  think  what  a  start  he  had." 

"A  start  is  it?  Didn't  I  lind  him  the  shoes  he  wore 
onto  the  boat?  And  now  he's  shod  with  gold  shoes.  And 
Roger  M'Murtha — in  the  same  steerage  he  come — he's 
a  supreme  coort  Joostice,  and  Jawn  Giluley  is  makin' 
scads  of  money — he  owns  this  buildin'.  I'm  payin' 
rint  to  him — now  and  thin.  But  I'm  a  conthractor  only, 
and  the  hard  times — and  this  war  on  top  o'  thim — has 
conthracted  me  till  if  the  conthraction  expands  anny 
furtherer  I'm  a  squeeged  limon." 

29 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

"You  have  more  sons  than  anny  of  them;  all  of  thim 
workin' — and  workin'  for  the  city.  You  could  lane  on 
them  if  need  was." 

"A  fine  thing  to  lay  back  on  me  sons." 

She  lashed  back  at  him:  "Man,  man,  what's  wrahng 
wit'  you?  I'd  think  you  were  some  old  hound  yelpin'  in 
the  cold.  There's  manny  out  in  that  snow  would  be 
wishin'  for  to  change  places  with  you,  only  they  have  no 
places  to  offer  you.  And  if  your  mother  has  been  waitin' 
all  this  while  she'll  be  so  much  the  gladder  to  have  you 
in  her  eyesight.  Manny's  the  mother  has  sent  her  sons  to 
America  and  never  laid  finger  on  them  again  whativer. 
And  look  at  the  mothers  that's  sindin'  their  sons  out  to 
the  wars.  It's  not  her  that  '11  be  the  unhappy  one, 
and  you  ought  to  be  down  on  the  pier  this  mortal  instint 
watchin'  for  her.  When  -does  the  old  boat  boomp  the 
dock  annyhow?" 

"She's  doo  in  to-day;  but  that  always  manes  to- 
morra.  What  with  the  big  win'  and  the  snow  she'll 
never  think  of  dockin'  till  Winsda — if  thin." 

"Maybe  they'll  put  a  spoort  on,"  Delia  suggested. 
"What  if  she'd  steal  in  on  you  unbeknownst?" 

Michael  laughed  patiently  at  such  childishness. 

"Sure  and  I've  looked  out  for  that.  I  paid  the  tele- 
graft  coompany  to  notify  me  in  full  and  plinty  of  time." 

Delia  retreated,  murmuring: 

"All  right,  all  right,  but  you've  a  way  of  gettin'  to  a 
place  too  late.  Hadn't  you  better  call  up  the  dock  and 
ask  them  would  the  boat  get  in  to-night  at  all?" 

"Ain't  I  just  after  tellin'  you  the  telegraft  coompany 
has  promised  to  sind  me  word  the  minyute  the  boat  passes 
Sandy  Hook?  That  gives  me  three  hours  to  get  to  the 
dock." 

Delia  took  another  and  final  farewell  shot: 

30 


MICHAELEEN!  MICHAELAWN! 

"I  don't  suppose  one  of  the  boys  could  ferget.  Mes 
senger-boys  doos  ferget  and  they're  slow." 

"But  ain't  I  tellin'  you  I  paid  the  coompany — " 
Michael  roared. 

"  I  know,  but  it  wouldn't  be  a  nice  thing  to  have  your 
mother  settin'  on  the  dock  waitin',  not  knowin'  where 
in  all  this  country  you  was — a  cold  welcome  for  her, 
that." 

"Nonsinse!  You'd  worry  after  you  got  to  heaven  for 
fear  the  gold  sthreets  would  cave  in.  I'll  take  a  chance 
on  the  telegraft  coompany." 

Delia  sighed,  unconvincedly,  "Maybe  you  know  best." 

"I  paid  the  coompany!"  Michael  snarled.  His  voice 
stopped  short  at  the  sound  of  a  telephone  bell  skirling 
suddenly.  He  looked  at  Delia  and  she  at  him.  They 
looked  anxiously  at  the  telephone.  It  rang  on  till 
Michael,  with  some  timidity,  went  to  it  and  lifted  the 
receiver  from  the  hook. 

"Hello!"  he  said  in  the  tone  of  an  invalid.  "Is  this 
the  dock?  No" — he  turned  triumphantly  to  Delia — "it 
is  not  the  dock." 

"Who  said  it  was!    And  who  is  it?" 

"Who  are  you? — Oh,  it's  you,  Giluley."  He  turned  to 
Delia  with  triumph.  "  It's  John  Giluley.  How  are  you, 
Giluley,  and  where  are  you?  Oh!"  He  turned  to  Delia 
with  all  shame.  " He's  on  the  dock.  She's  on  the  dock! 
Me  mother!  Down  there  in  the  cold  and  all  alone  with 
herself.  Oh,  the  creature ! — tell  her  not  to  stir — you  stay 
by,  Giluley.  I'll  be  there  just  as  soon  as  I've  murdered 
one  messenger-boy.  Tell  her  I'm  better  than  half -ways 
there  now." 

He  slapped  the  receiver  back  and  began  to  run  blindly 
about. 

"It  isn't  your  mother?"  Delia  faltered. 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"And  who  else  should  it  be?  Do  you  think  I've  a  date 
with  Queen  Mary?" 

"The  boat  isn't  in,  is  it?" 

"How  else  should  she  get  here?  Is  it  walked  you 
think  she  did? — or  shwum?  The  boat  passed  Sandy 
Hook  these  three  hours.  If  I  had  the  telegraft  coompany 
here!" 

"Oh,  musha,  then!  Why,  what  at  all !  Och,  meal  and 
murder!"  Delia  groaned.  "What  are  you  lookin'  for?" 

He  was  blundering  about  like  a  bear  in  a  cage. 

"Me  coat!  Me  coat!  D'you  think  I  can  go  to  the 
dock  in  me  shirt-sleeves?" 

"And  where  should  your  coat  be  but  where  you  left 
it  off — on  the  chair  there! — on  the  chair  there!"  He 
thrust  into  it,  mumbling.  The  door-bell  rang.  Delia 
hurried  to  the  door.  A  small  messenger-boy  with  a  large 
voice  poked  a  telegram  at  her. 

"Does  M.  Monahan  live  here?" 

"Mr.  Michael  Morahan  lives  here!"  she  answered  with 
dignity,  and  seized  the  envelope  and  ran  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  Michael  was  now  charging  about  for  his  hat. 

"Here,  Mike,  open  this,"  she  said. 

He  took  it  grimly.  "I've  no  need  to  open  it."  He 
opened  it  and  read  the  insulting  line:  "Steamer  Hibernia 
just  passing  Sandy  Hook!"  He  made  uncouth  sounds  of 
ironic  wrath  and  clenched  and  unclenched  his  big  fists. 

The  small  gum-grinding  messenger  swaggered  in. 

"Hay,  you  gotta  sign  t'e  book." 

This  exploded  Michael.  "Sign  the  book,  is  it?"  He 
towered  over  the  lad  with  Cyclopean  rage.  "He  says 
I  gotta  sign  the  book!  Oh,  I'll  sign  the  book." 

The  boy  looked  up  into  the  storm  and  began  to  cringe 
a  little.  Delia  dragged  Michael  away. 

"He  ain't  the  prisidint  of  the  coompany,  now." 

32 


MICHAELEEN!    MICH AELA WN ! 

Michael  surrendered  his  prey  with  reluctance.  He 
snatched  the  book  and  pencil  from  the  boy,  scrawled  a 
violent  signature,  drove  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  fished 
out  a  dime,  and  said  with  gnashing  gentleness : 

"Here  you  are,  my  little  maneen;  that's  for  yourself. 
As  for  your  prisidint,  tell  him  I'll  slaughther  him  six 
different  ways  if  I  find  him." 

"T'anks,"  said  the  boy,  resuming  the  milling  of  his 
chewing-gum.  "Any  answer?" 

' '  Answer  to  who  ?     For  what  ? ' '  groaned  Michael . 

Delia  urged  the  boy  out,  murmuring,  "Run  home  and 
tell  your  mother  to  thank  her  saint  she  has  you  back." 

She  thrust  the  boy  out  of  the  door,  caught  Michael's 
overcoat  from  the  rack,  pushed  it  on  his  wavering  arms, 
and  stood  aside  as  he  dashed  through.  She  ran  out 
into  the  hall  to  watch  his  noisy  descent.  She  saw  the 
messenger-boy  flatten  himself  against  the  wall  in  time  to 
escape  being  run  over.  Then  she  hurried  back  to  a 
window,  opened  it,  and  stared  down  into  the  street. 

She  saw  him  emerge  into  the  storm  and  struggle  fan 
tastically  for  his  balance  on  the  slippery  pavement. 
She  saw  him  brush  aside  all  interferers  and  swing  aboard 
a  surface  car  on  which  a  passing  elevated  train  shook 
down  lumps  of  snow. 

Then  she  drew  back  into  the  house  and  brushed  the 
snow  from  her  own  head  and  shoulders.  She  was  praying 
for  his  safety  in  the  crowded,  slippery  ways.  At  the  same 
time  she  was  calling  to  Kate  to  help  her  make  ready  for 
the  ancient  and  honorable  visitor  from  overseas. 

"Oh,  Kate,  Kate !    Herself  is  in  town !" 

Delia  had  been  Herself  in  this  household  all  these  years. 
Now  she  was  abdicating  the  throne. 

Making  ready  for  the  guest  of  honor  consisted  chiefly 
in  a  frantic  rearrangement  of  things  already  established — 

33 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

the  mighty  pother  that  passionate  housekeepers  make  out 
of  things  of  no  particular  importance.  Delia  and  Kate 
wrought  like  mad  for  an  hour,  yet  they  were  caught  still 
unready  by  a  great  pounding  on  the  door,  a  jabbing  of  the 
shrill  bell,  and  the  familiar  rumble  of  Michael's  voice. 

"My  soul  to  the  saints!"  Delia  squealed.  "Herself  is 
outside  and  the  tay  not  drawn." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  door,  giving  a  chair  a  shove, 
a  table-cover  a  yank,  and  the  pictures  on  the  walls  a 
push  to  square  them  in  the  positions  the  trains  kept 
shaking  them  out  of. 

She  flung  back  the  door  and  found  Michael  supporting 
a  mass  of  clothes  which  she  assumed  to  be  his  mother. 
Over  the  face  there  was  a  veil  with  frozen  breath  glistening 
on  it. 

Michael  warped  her  through  the  casement  gently, 
growling : 

"Sure  I  thought  you  was  all  dead  within  in  there. 
Aisy  now!  Do  you  think  she's  a  load  of  coal,  that  you're 
so  rough?" 

They  worried  the  old  lady  to  a  chair  and  proceeded 
to  unwrap  her  as  if  she  were  a  mummy,  and  when  she 
came  forth  she  had  something  the  look  of  one,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  black  glitter  of  her  little  eyes. 

Her  incredibly  wrinkled  face  was  all  patterned  into 
tiny  diamonds  and  squares. 

She  put  up  two  trembling  mittened  hands  to  clasp 
Delia's  and  kissed  her  warm  cheek  with  thin,  cold  lips. 
She  was  panting  too  hard  to  speak  at  first,  then  she 
whispered : 

4 'Ah,  Delia,  agra,  how's  every  bit  of  ye?" 

"Finely,  thank  you,  ma'am  honey,  and  it's  you  that 
have  made  the  lahng  v'yage  and  lookin'  that  fresh  as  if 
you'd  been  only  steppin'  from  one  room  to  another." 

34 


MICHAELEEN!    MICHAELAWN! 

Mrs.  Morahan,  senior,  smiled  at  the  amiable  flattery. 

"Och,  agra,  it's  more  like  steppin'  from  airth  up  till 
heaven  for  these  ould  bones.  It's  a  power  of  stairs  you 
have,  but  once  you  are  here  you've  no  ind  of  comforts." 

"Thim  stairs  is  the  divil's  own  bother!"  Michael 
growled.  "I'm  thinkin'  of  havin'  them  out." 

"You've  been  takin'  good  care  of  Himself,  Delia." 

Delia  blushed  with  pride.  "He's  alive;  that's  much 
these  days.  But  he  needs  a  good  bit  of  motherin'." 

"A  man  never  gets  past  the  needin'  of  that,  I'm  think- 
in',"  sighed  Michael. 

And  his  wife,  a  little  hurt  with  the  oldest  jealousy  in 
the  world,  made  an  excuse  for  flight. 

"But  where's  Katie?  She  should  be  here  with  the  hot 
tay.  Katie,  Katie!" 

She  made  off  in  girlish  confusion  and  found  Katie  trying 
to  untie  the  knot  in  her  apron-strings,  and  the  tea  not 
begun. 

Left  alone  with  her  child,  the  old  woman  stared  at  him, 
seeing  rather  the  lad  she  had  last  seen  than  the  heavy 
old  man  he  had  become. 

"Ah,  Michaeleen,  my  little  Mickeen!"  she  sighed. 

He  dropped  with  a  thump  to  one  knee  and  embraced  her 
and  her  chair  with  his  burly  arms. 

"Ah,  me  little  mother!" 

"A  better  boy  never  broke  the  world's  bread,"  she 
sighed,  caressing  his  wrinkled  cheek  with  a  more  wrinkled 
hand.  "And  he  remembered  his  ould  mother  all  this 
lahng  while?" 

"And  she  didn't  forget  her  useless  omadhawn  of  a 
son?" 

"Forget  him?  It's  me  that  has  crossed  oceans  of  say 
just  for  to  have  a  look  at  him." 

The  roar  of  the  blood  in  her  ears  had  stilled  now  with 
*  35 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

repose  so  that  she  could  hear  the  cyclone  of  a  passing 
train.  She  clutched  at  Michael's  sleeve.  "The  saints 
take  thought  on  us!  What  is  it  at  all?"  She  caught 
sight  of  something  shooting  past  the  window.  "Is  it 
wan  of  thim  flyin'-machines  there's  such  tahk  of?" 

"It's  only  the  ilevated  train,  ma  honey,"  he  smiled. 
"We  have  another  that's  like  it,  only  underground." 

"It's  a  grand  city  this  New  York,"  she  said,  trying  to 
maintain  her  dignity.  "Bigger  than  Dooblin,  belike?" 

"There's  more  Irish  here  than  in  all  Dublin,  let  alone 
the  foreigners  and  a  sprinklin'  of  natives." 

Bridget's  pride  held  the  curb  on  her  astonishment. 
She  had  lived  in  the  outskirts  of  a  small  town,  and  of 
later  years  had  hardly  visited  even  Lisdoonvarna,  though 
the  rumor  of  the  gaiety  and  excitement  of  its  sulphur 
baths  had  been  a  cause  of  much  gossip  from  cabin  to 
cabin.  She  had  hardly  seen  a  railroad  till  she  took  the 
stage  from  Lisdoonvarna  to  Ennistimon,  and  the  train 
from  there  to  Queenstown,  and  a  lighter  from  there  to  the 
ship,  and  a  taxicab  from  the  ship  to  her  son's  home. 
That  was  all  the  travel  she  had  had  in  her  threescore  and 
sixteen.  But  she  was  not  going  to  betray  her  amazement 
with  any  gasping  stupefaction  of  crude  ignorance. 

The  Irish  peasantry  is  generally  credited  with  more 
aristocracy  than  any  other.  The  poorest  are  fed  on  royal 
legends  even  when  the  potatoes  fail,  and  they  sweeten 
the  sour  milk  on  their  stirabout  with  grandeur  of  manner. 

Mrs.  Morahan,  senior,  had  spent  her  life  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  country  of  Brian  Boroihme.  She  had  seen 
the  ramparts  of  his  fortress  at  Killaloe  on  the  banks  of 
Shannon,  With  no  more  area  than  Maryland  and  no 
more  population  than  Grand  Rapids,  County  Clare 
boasted  a  hundred  castles  and  ruins  a  thousand  years  old. 
Why  should  she  truckle  to  an  upstart  like  New  York? 

36 


MICHAELEEN!  MICHAELAWN! 

She  did  not.  She  would  not  let  herself  express  more  than 
a  polite  approval.  It  was  a  strain,  though,  and  she  was 
glad  to  be  restored  to  easy  majesty  by  the  shy  approach 
of  Kate. 

Kate  came  in,  fat  and  awkward,  and  so  timid  that  she 
could  hardly  hold  the  tray  of  tea.  She  shoved  it  onto  a 
table,  knocking  off  a  book,  stooped  for  that  and  bumped 
the  tray.  Then  she  came  forward,  scarlet,  and  turned 
to  the  tiny  old  woman  who  had  something  of  the  air  of 
a  withered  queen. 

Bridget  lifted  her  little  head  and  Kate  bent  down  and 
exchanged  kisses  with  her,  but  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say.  Katie  had  visited  Ireland  as  a  young  woman  of 
twenty  some  fourteen  years  before ;  time  and  lack  of  love 
had  dealt  harshly  with  her  since,  but  the  old  woman  did 
not  hesitate  to  greet  her  with  outrageous  flattery. 

"Katie  dear,  and  how  is  yourself?  But  for  why  should 
I  ask  you?  You're  not  changed  the  one  whit  since  you 
come  breakin'  all  the  hearts  in  the  eleven  baronies  of 
Clare." 

The  unwitting  irony  of  this  was  pitiful  in  its  effect  on 
Kate  and  her  humbled  parents.  Fortunately  the  little 
sharp  eyes  were  too  dull  to  see  the  dismay  she  caused. 

Delia,  with  great  presence  of  mind,  whisked  forward 
the  tea  and  made  a  royal  ceremony  of  serving  it. 

"It's  the  grand  tay,"  said  Bridget.  "It's  the  same 
tay  you've  been  sindin'  me  all  these  years.'* 

Michael  nodded;  that  had  been  one  of  his  little  tributes. 

"But  where's  the  other  childer?  Katie's  not  all  you 
have  left?" 

Delia  cast  up  her  hands  at  the  very  idea. 

"Sure  we've  a  flock  of  them,"  said  Michael.  "I'll  see 
can  I  lay  holt  on  them.  We  rnaybe  might  ahl  have  soopper 
together." 

37 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

He  went  near  the  door,  lifted  a  black  rubber  ear-piece 
and  spoke  into  the  wall — a  number  he  said,  and  a  name. 
The  Ould  Black  Boy  himself  must  have  been  within  in  it, 
for  in  a  moment  Michael  was  hopping  mad  and  contradict 
ing  the  thing,  shouting  at  it,  "No,  I  did  not  say  four- 
two-wan-six.  I  said  four-tree- wan-siv'm!" 

Bridget  was  hard  put  to  it  to  pretend  that  she  had 
been  used  to  telephones  all  her  life.  At  length  Michael's 
voice  ceased  to  quarrel  with  his  invisible,  inaudible  tor 
mentor,  and  he  said:  "Is  this  the  station  house?  Is 
Lootinant  Morahan  there?  Tell  him  his  old  man  wants 
a  worrud  wit'  him.  Yes,  this  is  Himself.  Oh,  hello, 
Cap'n,  you're  lookin'  fine.  Yis — sure!  Thank  ye —  Is 
that  you,  Myles?  Say,  can't  you  quit  out  of  that  a  while 
and  run  over  home?  Your  grandmother  is  in  and  dyin' 
for  to  see  you.  Ah,  tell  the  Cap'n  there's  burgulars 
here!  Fine!  And  say,  Myles,  round  up  the  other  boys, 
why  not? — and — whishper! — bring  thim  along  ahl  at  the 
wan  time.  I  want  to — to — what  you  might  say  spring 
the  boonch  on  her — er — all  in  a  boonch.  Fine  for  you! 
And  say,  be  quick  about  it.  Good-by." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  turned  to  Delia: 

"Myles  says  he'll  run  them  ahl  in.  Sure,  they'd  fill  a 
pathrol  wagon,  and  at  that  there's  a  couple  o'  gerls  missin', 
Nora  and  Mary,  that  married  and  wint  West.  Say, 
Delia,  if  that  gang  of  lads  is  to  ate  here,  you'll  have  to 
be  ordherin'  in  a  pile  of  thruck." 

Delia  bustled  out  with  Kate,  and  mother  and  son 
found  themselves  alone  again.  They  chattered  a  long 
while,  exchanging  gossips  of  old  acquaintance  come  to 
America  or  left  at  home,  or  returning  thither.  Michael 
seated  himself  in  a  chair  by  her  side  and  took  her  hand 
in  his  and  stared  at  it  and  smiled  at  her  with  a  world  of 
love.  He  could  find  no  phrase  to  express  the  welling  of  the 

38 


MICHAELEEN!    MICHAELAWN! 

long-stored  waters  of  his  affection — nothing  to  do  but  to 
shake  his  head  and  maunder: 

"Och,  you  little  old  villain,  you." 

She  smiled  back  at  him  and  squeezed  his  hand  as  with 
a  bird's  claws,  helpless  to  say  the  things  she  felt.  She 
masked  her  confusion  with  a  sarcastic,  "Have  more 
respeck  for  your  elders." 

"Elders  is  it,  the  devil  admire  me  if  I'm  not  the  elderer 
of  us  two." 

"  Wirrasthrue,  Mickeen,"  she  moaned,  "I'm  a  long 
ways  from  the  old  home — and  a  short  ways  from  the 
new." 

The  thought  was  a  knife  in  his  heart.  He  clutched  her 
hand  as  if  he  would  hold  her  back.  He  shivered,  and  a 
little  tremor  ran  faintly  through  the  rickety  tenement  of 
her  tired  soul. 

"  It's  growin'  chill,  Mike  avourneen,  with  the  sun  gone." 

He  caught  her  hands  tighter  in  his  and  gasped:  "Why, 
you're  fairly  starved  wit'  the  cold.  Come  over  here  and 
have  a  taste  of  the  heat  off  the  radiator." 

"The  what-iator?"  she  said,  as  he  shoved  her  chair 
across  the  room.  "What  have  you  within  in  there?" 

"Stame." 

"Is  it  an  injine  that  you  have  stame  to  it?"  He  put 
her  feet  against  it  and  she  wondered.  "Och,  musha, 
there's  warmth  there." 

"Yes,  in  warrum  weather  there's  warmth." 

She  looked  about.  "And  have  you  no  fireplace  here? 
No,  you  have  none.  How  do  you  put  the  hate  in  this?" 

"We  don't,  ma  dear.  Down-stairs  there's  a  janitor — 
a  kind  of  cellar  king.  He  puts  coal  in  a  big  foornace 
when  he's  not  too  busy,  and  the  warmth  mounts  up.  J 

"And  does  he  now?  And  saves  you  the  work!  And  I 
notice  there's  no  smoke  at  all  out  of  this.  It  saves  your 

39 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

eyes  and  nose  a  lot  of  throuble.  There's  a  pile  of  con- 
vanience  into  it;  it's  cliver  and  clane.  And  that  thing 
in  the  wall  there  you  talk  to;  that's  injanious.  It  bates 
the  way  I  used  to  go  out  on  the  hills  and  call  you  childer 
home  when  the  night  come  crawlin'  over  the  say." 

"Oh,  well,  they  have  points.  But,  ma,  acushla,  I'd 
rather  than  all  the  radiators  and  telephonies  in  the 
worruld  be  a  wisp  of  a  lad  again,  droppin'  at  your  feet 
before  the  old  kittle  over  the  turf  fire,  and  you  tellin' 
me  about  the  fairy  people — Thim  Ones." 

She  laughed  uncannily.  "It  was  long  iver  ago  and 
me  hair  was  woild  and  red,  and  none  of  the  bog-cotton 
it  is  now." 

"And  I'm  no  wisp  of  a  lad  be  some  two  hundred  pound. 
I'm  wonderin'  if  you  call  to  mind  the  story  of  how  the 
wild  flowers  come  to  be  invinted.  It's  the  further- 
backest  thing  I  remimber." 

"Och,  child,  darlint,  haven't  you  forgot  that  at  all? 
Ivery  night  you'd  dhraw  up  the  little  creepy-stool  to  me 
side,  and  you'd  lane  your  cheek  on  me  knee,  and  look 
into  the  core  of  the  fire,  and  make  me  tell  it  till  you — 
before  you  was  smothered  to  sleep." 

The  wish  to  hear  it  again  came  upon  him  with  a  pang 
of  longing.  It  was  so  dark  by  now  that  he  could  hardly 
see  her  or  himself,  and  the  gloom  played  magic  with  him. 
Without  thought  of  his  cumbrous  weight  of  flesh,  he  got 
to  the  floor  and  laid  his  big  head  on  her  sharp  knee,  and 
murmured : 

"Tell  it  me  again,  mother  jewel.  I've  a  longin'  to 
hear  it  that's  smotherin'  me,  now.  Tell  it  me  again." 

Upon  the  dark  their  fancy  painted  the  same  picture: 
the  young  widow  in  the  shadow-furnished  cabin  staring 
into  the  whispering  radiance  of  the  fire,  and  the  barefoot 
drowsihead  crouched  against  her  feet.  Youth  came  back 

40 


MICHAELEEN!    MICH AELA WN ! 

to  them  both  with  a  blissful  sorrowfulness.  The  voice 
that  quavered  through  the  old  legend  seemed  to  them 
both  the  rich,  deep  singsong  of  a  full  -  throated  girl : 
"It  was  once,  a  lahng,  lahng  time  pasht,  whin  God  was 
feelin'  tired  afther  a  haird  day's  worruk.  He  put  His 
head  on  His  hand,  and  He  wint  to  sleep.  And  clouds  of 
gold  gethered  round  Him  for  to  prevint  the  disturbance 
of  His  rest. 

"He  dramed  wondherful  drames,  and  whin  He  woke, 
He  looked  round  and  waved  the  cloud  off,  and  He  saw 
the  angel  Michael  standin'  gaird.  And  Michael  asked 
the  Lord  if  He  was  want  in'  anny  thing  and  He  said — 
He  said—" 

Her  memory  wavered,  and  the  boy  prompted  her  as 
of  old: 

"He  said,  'No,  t'thank  ye,  Michaeleen.'" 

"He  said,  'No,  t'thank  ye,  Michaeleen.'  Thin  He- 
thin  He — "  She  was  only  pretending  to  forget  this  time, 
to  see  if  he  remembered  this  also.  To  her  strange  delight, 
he  mumbled : 

"He  swithered  for  a  minyute." 

"He  swithered  for  a  minyute,  thin  He  says,  'Sind  me 
a  chariot  and  a  charioteer  wit'  harses  wit'  wings  onto 
thim.'  And  with  that  same  there  stands  the  chariot  wit' 
the  winged  harses,  and  the  charioteer  stands  ready  for 
orders  and  saloots,  and  God  says,  'Take  this  sack  of 
seeds—' " 

"'Of  flower  seeds,'"  came  the  correction. 

"'Of  flower  seeds,  and  take  a  thrip  around  the  intire 
worruld  and  scatther  these  seeds  by  the  roadsides,  in  the 
woods,  in  the  bogs,  in  all  the  woild  places  whativer  where 
the  poor  have  access.' 

"At  that  time  flowers  had  only  been  newly  invinted 
and  they  were  very  rare.  Folk  called  thim '  livin',  breathin' 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

jewlery,'  and  none  but  the  rich  had  thim.    Which  was  not 
God's  intintion,  at  ahl. 

"So  the  angel  took  the  sack  of  seeds,  and  hurrooshed 
his  harses  out  o'  that  and  wint  and  did  God's  bidding. 
And  the  airth  was  barren  no  more,  and  it  was  no  more 
only  the  rich  that  had  flowers,  for  from  that  day  primroses, 
daisies,  butthercups,  and  all  the  purty,  wee  posies  of  the 
worruld  have  grown  in  places  where  the  poorest  could 
have  them  for  the  throuble  of  shtoopin'  down.  Iver  since 
then  there  is  no  mortial  so  poor  he  cannot  find  flowers 
along  his  pathway,  wheriver,  whativer,  whoiver." 

Her  voice  died  away,  yet  the  ghost  of  it  seemed  to  float 
upon  the  air.  The  two  souls  hung  aloof  from  time  and 
place  and  fact  and  age  swithering  in  a  golden  cloud  of 
reverie. 

The  door-bell  rang  through  it.  Delia  came  in  from  the 
dining-room  and  stood  in  a  nimbus  of  light,  peering  at 
them  in  wonder.  Michael  rose  to  his  feet  with  difficult 
struggle,  for  the  burden  of  his  years  fell  back  upon  his 
shoulders. 

"  Michaelawn !"  said  Delia,  "what's  on  you  again? 
Why  have  you  not  made  a  light?" 

"Why  have  you  waked  me  from — "  But  he  could  not 
explain. 

Delia  lighted  the  gas  and  they  sat  chatting  and  brooding 
for  a  long  while.  Then  Bridget  was  startled  by  a  whirring 
bell,  and  Kate  stole  through  to  the  door  and  admitted  a 
parade  of  Michael's  children,  all  talking,  bustling,  treading 
upon  dreams. 

There  were  Myles,  the  policeman;  Shamus,  the  fire 
man;  Barney,  the  building  inspector,  and  Dermot,  the 
priest. 

Michael  did  his  best  with  the  introductions.  When  it 
came  to  the  young  priest  he  was  puzzled. 

42 


MICHAELEEN!    MICH AELA WN ! 

"This  is  Dermot,"  he  said.  "He's  the  only  wan  that 
takes  afther  me.  Kiss  your  grandmother,  Father.  Troth, 
the  relationship  is  so  twishted  I  don't  know  how  to  call 
him.  If  he  is  Father  to  his  own  father,  what  would  that 
make  him  to  his  grandmother? — grandfather  belike. 
Annyhow,  Father  Dermot,  me  son,  kiss  your  grandchild." 

Dermot  was  shy  and  his  grandmother  was  a  trifle  afraid 
of  him,  but  Michael  shouted: 

"Don't  let  his  cloth  put  a  chill  on  you,  mother.  He's 
the  most  janial  Father  I  iver  had." 

"It's  a  grand  family  you  have,  my  bouchal  bawn. 
And  it  doos  me  proud,"  said  Bridget. 

The  door-bell  rang  again.  This  time  it  was  Patrick, 
who  had  hastened  from  the  far-off  Bronx.  He  bore  a 
large  bundle. 

"It's  you,  Paudeen,"  cried  Michael,  "and  where's  the 
woman  that  owns  you?" 

"She's  strugglin'  up  the  stairs,"  said  Patrick.  "I 
hurried  up  to  give  grandma  the  first  sight  of — of  this." 

He  unfurled  a  googling  infant.  Bridget  was  all  a- 
flutter  over  it.  She  poked  a  lean  finger  at  it,  and  it 
clutched  it  in  a  pink  paw  and  gurgled. 

"And  what  might  his  name  be?"  Bridget  asked. 

"Bridget,"  said  Patrick. 

"Och,  murder  in  Irish.  I'm  a  great-grandmother!" 
gasped  Bridget. 

Then  the  young  mother  stumbled  in,  breathing  heavily 
and  blushing  with  fury.  Patrick  introduced  her. 

"This  is  my  Annie,  grandma.  She's  only  a  Sligo 
woman,  but  she's  all  right  in  spite  of  that.  And  there's 
the  proof." 

He  laid  the  infant  on  the  ancestral  lap  and  it  looked  up, 
waving  hands  and  feet  aloft  to  the  down-staring  witch 
whence  its  life  had  been,  as  it  were,  decanted  thrice. 

43 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

The  ancient  Bridget  wondered  over  this  promise  of 
future  generations,  and  her  emotions  overwhelmed  her. 
She  drooped  back  in  her  chair  and  Rosie  bent  to  snatch 
her  child  away,  but  it  clung  to  the  old  hand  it  held. 
Michael  laid  an  anxious  palm  on  his  mother's  brow. 

She  understood  his  fear,  and  with  her  free  hand  caught 
at  his,  whispering : 

"I'm  ahl  right,  Michael  avic.  I'm  better  than  ahl 
right.  I'm  just  that  happy  I'm  drowsy  wit'  it.  I'll  have 
a  few  winks  of  sleep,  then  I'll  come  back  till  you." 

A  train  stormed  by  and  Michael  grumbled: 

"The  devil  fly  away  wit'  those  cairs;  they'll  murder 
your  sleep  on  you." 

"  Och,  no,  honey,  I'll  rest  the  betther  for  them.  They're 
like  the  long  waves  that  used  to  come  over  the  ocean 
from  here  and  bate  upon  the  cliffs  of  Moher,  where  I 
heard  them  the  night  through.  Little  I  thought  I'd 
pass  over  thim  to  this  side  of  the  big  wather." 

Her  head  sank  to  her  breast  and  she  was  already  asleep. 
Her  child  and  his  children  stood  about  her  in  the  shadow 
like  ghosts.  In  the  mystery  of  existence  she  had  given 
them  to  the  world.  Beyond  them  in  deeper  shadow  a 
future  company  of  souls  waited  their  turns  in  the  clay. 


Ill 

SENT  FOR  OUT 


"Tl  THAT'S  on  himself  at  all?— I  don't  know,"  said 
V  V  Mrs.  Delia  Morahan  to  her  sons.  "So  airly  in 
the  day,  his  dinner  but  only  aiten,  and  he  singin'l  And 
he  has  no  drink  taken.  There's  something  queer  in  it." 
Michael  Morahan,  usually  the  last  to  finish  his  noon 
day  dinner,  had  been  to-day  the  first.  He  had  chased 
the  last  morsel  of  his  second  piece  of  pie  up  against  his 
left  thumb,  forked  it,  stowed  it,  washed  it  down  with  the 
last  swig  of  his  second  cup  of  coffee,  and  sighed  the  big, 
full  "  Ah!"  that  was  the  amen  of  his  grace.  Then  he  had 
pushed  cup  and  plate  back,  planted  his  hands  on  the 
cloth,  heaved  himself  erect,  swept  the  faces  round  the 
board  with  a  defiant  and  mysterious  smile,  winked  at 
his  fat  wife,  kissed  his  ancient  mother1  on  the  lace  cap, 
and  stalked  into  the  bedroom. 

And  now  through  the  quivering  door  pealed  the  thunder 
of  his  song.  It  had  the  wild  vigor  of  a  war-chant,  but  the 
words  were: 

"Thin  coom  to  thi-is  buzzum,  me  own  sthricken  deer." 

Myles,  the  policeman,  winced:  "Stricken  deer,  is  it? 
He'd  scare  off  a  flock  of  buffaloes  from  restin'  in  Centeral 
Park." 

45 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Katie,"  said  Delia,  "let  you  go  tell  him  to  hold  his 
whist,  and  doos  he  forget  his  poor  mother  is  near  moidered 
with  the  influence?" 

Old  Bridget  put  up  her  shriveled  hand  and  crackled: 

"No,  no,  lave  the  boy  sing.  It's  a  pleasure  to  hear  a 
man  singin'  about  the  house." 

"Singin'?  yes!  would  he  sing,"  said  Delia,  "but  it's 
auctioneerin'  he  is." 

It  was  a  kind  of  Irish  headache  old  Bridget  had  on  her, 
for  she  startled  at  the  least  clack  of  knife  on  plate,  and 
every  elevated  train  going  by  seemed  to  go  over  her,  yet 
she  smiled  at  the  clamoring  lyric  of  her  son.  And  she  fell 
asleep  in  her  chair  to  his  lullaby.  Katie  wheeled  her  into 
her  own  room,  where  she  might  sleep  undisturbed. 

Delia  continued  to  wonder  about  her  husband: 

"And  he  invitin'  Shane  to  dinner  and  nothin'  come  of  it. 
And  when  Shane  says  he's  lost  his  job  he  lets  his  face  fall 
and  says  nothin';  then  takes  himself  from  the  table, 
and  now  singin '!  It  bates  all." 

Shane  O'Mealia  smiled  with  self-derision: 

"Ah,  there's  no  news  in  me  losin'  me  job.  It's  the  one 
thing  I  do  with  regularity." 

"Niver  once  through  a  fahlt  of  your  own,  Shaneen," 
said  Delia,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder  as  she  bent  over 
to  clear  off  the  debris  of  dinner.  Shane  put  his  hand  on 
hers  and  muttered: 

"Ah,  aunt  honey,  when  the  coincidences  coince  too 
regular  it  quits  bein'  accident.  It's  me  that's  not  worth 
a  thraneen." 

"Och,  blathers,  and  you  with  a  head  of  gold." 

"Oh,  I've  a  head,  and  so's  a  pin,  but  I  can't  sthick, 
and  a  pin  can." 

Shane  O'Mealia  was  the  son  of  Delia's  sister  Hannah, 
who  had  never  left  Ireland.  Shane  himself  had  come 


SENT   FOR   OUT 

over  but  three  years  ago.  He  had  a  genius  for  bad  luck 
and  for  melancholy.  But  he  had  also  that  magnetic 
quality  known  as  "a  way  with  him."  He  was  one  of 
those  night-haired,  night-eyed,  Spanish-looking  Irishmen 
that  legend  explains  by  the  wreck  of  the  Great  Armada, 
when  myriads  of  Philip  II.'s  soldiers  were  drowned  in  the 
race  of  Erin. 

Shane  had  a  picturesque  Hispanian  gloom  that  was 
very  effective  with  women;  it  made  the  old  ones  long  to 
enliven  him  and  the  young  ones  long  to  be  the  cause  of  his 
further  grief.  Delia  loved  him  almost  more  than  her 
own  sons,  because  her  own  were  self-reliant  and  New 
York  born,  and  dictatorial.  They  liked  Shane,  but  they 
were  forever  ridiculing  him.  "We  guy  him  for  his  own 
good,"  Myles  would  say  when  his  mother  tried  to  hush 
them. 

Shane  worked  hard  and  earnestly,  almost  desperately, 
but  he  was  hounded  by  one  of  those  amazing  sequences 
of  luck  that  distinguish  life  and  other  games  of  chance. 
His  first  job  in  America  had  been  that  of  a  digger  in  an 
excavation  that  was  never  completed;  the  builder  failed 
before  he  reached  his  foundation.  The  next  job  was 
ended  by  an  injunction.  The  next  by  the  death  of  his 
employer.  The  next  was  tied  up  by  a  stockholders'  legal 
war.  Even  when  Michael  managed  at  last  to  warp  him 
into  the  haven  of  so  many  Irishmen,  an  appointment 
in  one  of  the  municipal  departments,  Shane  attained  it 
just  as  it  became  the  fashion  for  politicians  to  boast  of 
their  economies  and  the  reduction  of  their  staffs. 

Shane  was  politely,  and  with  many  compliments  for  his 
intelligence,  successively  squeezed  into  and  squeezed  out 
of  more  or  less  important  posts  in  the  Bureau  of  Assess 
ments  and  Arrears,  the  Department  of  Bridges,  the  City 
Chamberlain's  office,  the  Board  of  Coroners,  the  Corpora- 

47 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

tion  Yards,  the  Tenement  House  Department,  and  the 
Public  Service  Commission. 

Michael,  who  knew  somebody  everywhere,  got  him  all 
the  jobs,  and  Shane  always  made  friends;  but  he  could 
not  take  root.  Michael  always  promised  that  the  next 
job  would  mark  the  turn  of  his  luck  for  the  better,  but 
bad  luck  sought  its  own  again. 

Only  a  month  ago  Michael  had  landed  Shane  in  the 
office  of  the  Commissioner  of  Public  Charities,  and  had 
been  assured  that  he  was  there  for  life.  He  lived  but  the 
one  month,  and  only  to-day  he  had  sobered  the  jovial 
Michael  with  the  news  at  dinner.  When  Michael  was 
happy,  however,  he  was  happy  in  spite  of  mere  facts, 
and  when  he  was  glum,  dynamite  could  not  unseat  him 
from  his  gloom.  He  had  recovered  instantly  from  Shane's 
ill  news  and  had  promised  him  still  another  job,  and  now  he 
was  howling  from  the  next  room: 

"Cushla  ma  chree, 

Did  you  but  see 

How  the  rogue  he  did  serve  me? 
He  broke  me  pitcher,  he  spilt  me  wather, 
He  kissed  me  wife,  and  he  married  me  daughther, 

Oh!   cushla  ma  chree!" 

Shane  hardly  heard  him  as  he  raised  his  heartbreaking 
black  eyes  to  groan : 

"It's  bad  luck  has  the  long  legs.  What  blisters  me  is 
this  thing  comin*  on  top  of  me  gettin'  me  commission 
in  the  National  Gaird  for  to  be  second  leftenant — lootinant 
in  the  Sixty-nint'.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Aunt 
Dalia!" 

"It's  a  grand  thing  for  the  rigimint,"  said  Delia. 

"But  grandeur  pays  no  bills,"  said  Shane,  "and  I've 
me  uniform  to  pay  for,  and  it  ready  these  two  days." 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

Michael,  collarless  and  fuming,  appeared  at  the  door 
in  time  to  hear  this  last.  A  scowl  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  Lucifer  changed  to  a  smile  that  St.  Raphael  would 
have  been  proud  of. 

"Shane,  me  boy,"  he  said,  "niver  fret;  it's  me  will  lind 
you  what  cash  you  must  give  the  milithry  tailor." 

Shane  was  joyed  for  an  instant;  then  he  shook  his  head. 

"And  for  why  should  you,  Uncle  Michael?" 

"I  have  me  raisins,"  said  Michael,  with  an  occult  wink 
at  himself.  He  turned  to  his  wife.  "Dalia,  where's  that 
boondle  of  money  I'm  after  lavin'  on  you  lasht  Choosda?" 

Delia  set  down  a  spool  of  plates  in  alarm  and  gasped: 

"  The  money  you  gave  me  for  the  rint  ?" 

"That  same." 

"You  gave  it  me  for  the  rint!"  she  protested.  "And 
Giluley's  comin'  for  it  this  same  day.  And  two  months 
he's  waitin'  f'r  it." 

Michael  was  not  disturbed.    He  laughed : 

"Ah,  tell  him  to  cahl  again,  and  glad  for  to  see  him 
anny  day.  And  no  haird  feelin's  on  him  for  ahl  he's  a 
landlard.  Tell  him  I'd  forgive  him  did  I  owe  him  six 
months'  rint,  let  alone  two." 

Delia  was  horrified  at  this  shiftlessness  and  refused  to 
give  up  the  money  till  Michael  explained: 

"I  want  Shane  in  his  uniforrum  this  afthernoon  and 
night.  It's  va-ry  impartant.  And  I  want  him  here. 
Are  you  listenin',  Shane?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Michael,  and  glad  to  be  here,  seem'  I've 
no  place  else  to  go." 

Delia's  curiosity  was  not  yet  assuaged. 

"But  why  for  in  the  uniforrum?  Will  it  help  the  boy 
to  a  job  belike?" 

" It  will  that,"  Michael  grinned,  "and  to  a  life-lahng  job 
rmthinkin'." 

49 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

This  served  only  to  mystify  mystery,  but  when  Delia 
almost  squealed  in  her  curiosity  Michael  guffawed,  caught 
her  in  his  gorilla  arms,  and  crunched  her  bones,  while  he 
dodged  the  slaps  she  aimed  at  him.  Then  he  returned 
to  the  bedroom  and  began  to  rival  the  noise  of  the  elevated 
road  with  his  blood-curdling  rendition  of  another  love 
ditty: 

"Thou  bidst  me  sing  the  lay  I  sang  to  thee." 

Delia  kept  pausing  in  her  clearance  work  and  sighing: 
" What's  on  him  entirely?  Singin'  and  keenin' — is  it 
sick  he  might  be?" 

"He  has  the  sound  of  it,"  said  Barney.  "He'll  have 
the  roof  in  in  a  minute." 

"Now,  ma,"  said  Myles,  "what's  the  use  of  worryin' 
because  pa  is  singin'?  Why  arrunt  you  singin'  because 
he's  not  worryin'?" 

But  Delia  was  puzzled  solemn: 

"There's  something  in  the  win'  and  I  can't  abide  him 
havin'  secrets  of  his  own.  He's  not  to  be  thrusted  wit' 
them." 


II 


The  men  pushed  back  from  the  table  and  got  out  their 
tobacco.  Shamus,  the  fireman,  offered  Shane,  the  guest, 
his  package  of  cigarettes. 

"I  don't  use  them,"  said  Shane,  and  fished  out  a  pair 
of  cigars — a  farewell  tribute  from  his  late  chief.  He  prof 
fered  them  to  Myles,  who  absently  accepted  them  both. 

"Annybody  could  tell  you  were  a  policeman,"  said 
Shane. 

"Oh!"  said  Myles  in  a  trifle  of  confusion  as  he  handed 
one  back. 

50 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

He  tried  to  cover  his  retreat  with  a  bit  of  sarcasm: 

"You'll  be  a  posituv  danger  to  the  ladies,  Shane,  in 
your  brass  buttons." 

Barney,  the  building  inspector,  piped  in: 

"Judy  Dugan  will  go  mad." 

Delia  lifted  her  head.  "And  what's  Judy  Dugan  to 
Shane?"  she  demanded. 

"Nothin'  at  all,  Aunt  Dalia,"  said  Shane. 

"Nothin'  more  than  the  black  of  his  eye,"  said  Barney. 

"Ah,  whist  and  bad  manners  to  you!"  Shane  growled. 

Barney  continued  to  prod  him.  "Weren't  you  sayin' 
you  were  goin'  to  the  County  Cavan  calico  hop  to-night?" 

"Maybe  I  might." 

"But  you're  from  County  Clare." 

"Cavan  is  in  Ireland,  too,"  Shane  fenced. 

"Judy  Dugan  is  a  Cavan  girl,"  Barney  mused  aloud. 

"So  I  belave — believe,"  said  Shane,  who  was  trying 
to  shake  off  his  accent.  He  tried  to  seem  indifferent, 
but  Barney  followed  him  up. 

"Are  you  takin'  her  to  the  Cavan  hop?" 

"Maybe  I  might." 

"It's  more  like  Judy  takin'  you,"  Myles  sniffed. 

Delia  paused  at  the  kitchen  door  with  a  load  of  dishes. 

"What  chat  is  this  of  Judy  Dugan  and  Shane?" 

"She  owns  him,  that's  all,"  said  Barney. 

"Oh,  wirra,  wirrasthrue !"  Delia  wailed,  as  she  pushed 
through  the  door  dolefully  and  joined  Kate  at  the  faucets, 
but  told  her  nothing  of  her  fear. 

Against  a  counterpoint  of  dish-washing  in  the  kitchen 
and  Michael's  balladry  in  the  bedroom  the  young  men 
fell  to  battling  for  the  pure  Irish  love  of  battle.  Shane 
led  off  with  a  furious  tirade,  twisting  himself  in  and  out 
of  his  brogue. 

"You're  a  fine  gang  of  slandherers,  puttin'  bad  thoughts 
5  Si 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

in  your  mother's  mind.     Have  I  no  right  to  take  who  I 
plase — please — where  I  please — plase — please!" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  Barney  laughed.  "Ask  the  girl  you 
left  Back  There.  What's  happened  her?" 

Myles  answered  for  him.  "She's  still  Back  There  and 
liable  for  to  stay." 

Shane's  eyes  narrowed  to  lines  of  glittering  coals.  "Are 
you  referrin'  to  Moyna  Killilea,  be  anny  chanst?" 

"Oh,  there  was  more  than  the  one,  then?"  Myles 
whooped,  triumphant  in  his  bear-baiting. 

Shamus  added  his  jab: 

"There's  less  than  the  one  now,  I'm  thinkin',  over 
there  now." 

Shane  was  flaming  with  wrath.  He  threatened  both 
the  policeman  and  the  fireman.  "Keep  your  lahng 
tongues  from  off  her  name,  yous  two,  or  I'll  twisht  them 
out  of  you!" 

The  burly  Myles  laughed  down  at  him:  "You're  not 
mentioning  Miss  Killilea  yourself  this  long  while  back. 
We  used  to  hear  all  the  time  about  your  going  to  send  for 
her  out." 

"You  know  why  I  haven't  sent  for  her  out.  Where 
would  I  be  gettin'  the  money?" 

"If  I  had  a  girl  waitin'  for  me  there,  I'd  get  money, 
if  I  had  to  steal  it." 

"It  would  be  aisy  enough  stole,  with  police  like  you 
about,"  Shane  snapped. 

Myles  laughed  unperturbed.  Barney  joined  the  hurl- 
ing-match. 

"The  fare  over  is  only  fifteen  dollars." 
'That's  steerage!"  Shane  answered.     "Do  I  want  to 
be  bringin'  the  gerl  over  in  the  steerage?" 

"Steerage  is  better  than  not  comin*  at  all,"  said 
Shamus. 

52 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

But  Shane  pleaded:  " Suppose  I  had  her  here?  Have  I 
got  a  job  to  keep  her  on?" 

"Ah,  you'd  find  a  way  if  you  wanted  to,"  said  Myles, 
ruthlessly.  "But  why  send  for  Moyna  when  Judy 
Dugan's  so  convenient?" 

"You  lave  Judy  Dugan's  name  out  of  this,  I  tell  you,'* 
Shane  stormed. 

But  Myles  stormed  back:  "You  don't  leave  her  out 
anywhere.  You're  with  her  all  the  time." 

Shane  was  staggered.  It  was  an  ugly  situation.  He  had 
plighted  his  troth  to  Moyna;  he  had  in  his  young  loneliness 
taken  delight  in  Judy's  society.  He  had  neglected  to  tell 
Judy  about  Moyna.  Perhaps  he  had  told  Judy  that  she 
was  the  only  girl  he  ever  truly  loved.  It  was  as  true, 
he  was  sure,  as  Judy's  statement  that  Shane  was  the  first 
man  she  ever  kissed.  Some  cards  have  to  be  dealt  before 
the  game  can  begin. 

But  while  these  things  are  not  unprecedented,  they  do 
not  explain  well,  so  Shane  had  recourse  to  an  explanation 
that  was  entirely  the  truth,  though  it  might  not  have  been 
the  entire  truth: 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  why  I've  been  with  Judy  so  much, 
since  your  nose  is  so  lahng.  Her  father's  always  out  of 
work." 

"Small  wonder — seein'  he's  always  in  liquor,"  was  Bar 
ney's  contribution. 

Shane  went  on,  ''And  Judy  keeps  after  me  to  get  him  a 
job." 

"You  that  can't  get  one  for  yourself!"  Myles  sniffed. 

And  Shane  answered,  "Haven't  you  noticed  that  a 
man  can  get  a  job  for  others  whin  he  cannot  for 
himself?" 

This  appealed  to  reason  and  experience. 

"But  where,"  said  Myles,  "would  you  put  old  man 

53 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Dugan?     He's  that  withered  and  wore  out,  he's  as  useless 
and  rickety  as  a  busted  umberella." 

"That's  why  I'm  trying,"  said  Shane,  "to  get  him  a 
place  in  the  Board  of  Health." 

Barney  had  not  yet  tired  of  the  sport.     He  asked: 

"Is  it  your  intention,  once  you've  got  Judy's  father  a 
job,  to  marry  her  and  all  three  live  on  the  old  man,  or 
will  Judy  go  on  workin'  at  her  shop,  and  the  both  of  them 
support  you?" 

Shane  did  not  enjoy  the  post  of  target  and  his  cousins 
had  wrought  him  to  a  passion.  He  broke  out,  hotly: 

"Judy's  nothing  to  me,  I  tell  you,  but  a  nice  gerl. 
She  has  a  habit  on  her  of  acting  like  she  owned  a  fella, 
but  she  don't  own  me.  Moyna  is  my  Moyna,  and  when 
I  get  a  job  that  I  can  hold  I'll  bring  her  here  by  the  first 
boat.  But  I've  had  the  devil's  own  luck.  I've  never 
been  able  for  to  get  settled  annywhere.  I've  not  dared 
write  Moyna  for  the  disappointment  it  would  be  to  her, 
but  I'll  bring  her  out — don't  you  fear.  Some  day  I'll 
bring  her  out!" 

"Some  day  it  will  snow  stirabout,"  said  Barney,  who 
was  suspicious  of  eloquence. 

Myles  and  Shamus  were  almost  converted.  When  the 
door-bell  rang.  Kate  bustled  through  the  dining-room, 
drying  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"Four  to  one  it's  Judy  Dugan,"  said  Shamus. 

"You  win,"  said  Myles,  hearing  her  voice  at  the  door, 
a  sharp  twangy  Manhattan  voice,  with  a  perpetual  color 
of  amusement  and  sophistication. 

Shane's  swart  cheeks  were  suddenly  daubed  as  with 
red  paint,  and  his  indignation  gave  him  the  look  of  guilt. 
As  he  had  said,  coincidences  were  always  against  him. 

Judy  followed  close  on  the  heels  of  the  returning  Kate, 
and  sang  out : 

54 


SENT    FOR    OUT 

"Hello,  youngsters!     Pleased  to  meet  you — good-by!" 

Their  greeting  was  a  trio  of  smiles  and  an  almost  decora 
tive  triple  gesture  at  the  uneasy  Shane.  Judy's  tones  and 
her  eyes  softened  toward  him  and  she  cooed:  "Hello, 
Shane!  It's  you  I  want  to  see." 

The  three  brothers  began  to  side-step  toward  the  hall, 
when  Delia  bunted  the  door  open  backward  and  revolved 
in  with  a  stack  of  plates  in  each  arm.  As  she  was  unload 
ing  them  at  the  sideboard,  she  was  trying  to  forget  her 
new  grudge  against  Judy  and  be  hospitable : 

"Why,  Judy,  and  is  it  you,  now?  And  how  are  you? 
But  it's  no  need  askin',  with  you  lookin'  like  all  the 
money  in  the  worruld.  And  so  well,  too!  Sit  down,  do." 

"Thanks,"  said  Judy,  and  sat. 

Delia,  who  was  hoping  she  would  not,  was  just  sinking 
wearily  into  her  own  chair  when  Myles  scooped  her  up 
and,  pointing  to  the  kitchen  door,  spoke  in  his  most 
policemanly  tone: 

"Quit  out  of  this — you're  not  wanted." 

Judy  jumped  up  with  a  gasp.  "Why,  Myles  Morahan, 
the  idea.  I  wouldn't  think  of  it.  Sit  still,  Mrs.  Morahan. 
Shane  and  I  can  go  in  the  parlor." 

"It's  dark  in  there,"  said  Delia.  "I'll  turn  on  the 
electrickity." 

"They'd  like  it  better  dark,"  said  Barney,  outrageously. 

Shane  could  have  throttled  him,  but  Judy  laughed  aloud. 
Delia  looked  as  if  she  had  been  stabbed  in  the  heart. 


in 

Still,  one  has  to  be  polite  in  one's  own  flat,  and  Delia 
managed  to  say: 

"And  how's  your  poor  mother,  Judy? — the  saints  give 
her  aid!" 

55 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Oh,  ma's  poorly,  thank  you,"  sighed  Judy,  her 
laughter  turned  to  dreariness.  "Poor  soul,  she  goes  from 
bad  to  worse,  and  back  to  bad  again,  but  never  to  better, 
or  even  well." 

"And  your  father?"  Delia  asked,  with  some  embarrass 
ment. 

"Oh,  pa  is  fine — for  pa.  But  of  course  he's  always  a 
little — well,  you  know  pa's  pa." 

She  smiled  it  so  pluckily  that  Delia,  who  was  already 
softened  with  regret  for  the  far-off  Moyna,  felt  a  sorrow 
also  for  this  nearer  victim  of  Shane's  overpowering  helpless 
ness  and  beauty.  One  of  her  incessant  prayers  welled  to 
her  lips,  and  two  or  three  of  her  swift  tears  ran  out  on 
her  lids.  "Ah,  God  mark  you  to  grace,  you  poor  child! 
You've  been  father  and  mother  to  your  own  father  and 
mother  since  your  poor  ma  got  past  herself  and  took  to  her 
bed.  And  you  such  a  grand  business  woman  at  that! 
It's  you  that's  the  man  of  the  family." 

Judy  was  not  used  to  being  taken  seriously  or  tenderly. 
She  rarely  took  herself  seriously  or  felt  herself  worthy  of 
sympathy.  Sympathy  was  for  her  bedridden  mother  and 
her  bottle-ridden  father  and  such  dark  souls  as  Shane 
O'Mealia,  whom  she  had  tried  to  cheer  along  his  path. 

Delia's  unexpected  tribute  astounded  her.  Tears  call 
out  tears,  and  Judy  felt  her  lashes  suddenly  wet.  She 
shook  off  the  unwonted  drops  and  forced  a  hypocritical 
smile  of  indifference.  "Ah,  go  along  with  you,  you 
blarneyer." 

As  Delia  always  said,  "Judy  never  looks  herself,"  so 
now  she  suggested  almost  anything  rather  than  the  good, 
wise  girl  she  was.  She  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  added 
to  the  gaiety  and  the  warmth  of  the  landscape.  She  was 
dressed  in  the  latest  impudence  of  fashion.  A  joke  of  a 
hat  was  tilted  over  one  brow  with  the  effect  of  a  general 

56 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

wink.  Her  hair  was  of  a  somewhat  supernatural  tint, 
and  its  arrangement  was — as  Shane  once  told  her — "as 
full  of  I-dare-you  as  a  poke  in  the  eye." 

Her  skirts  were  short  and  hardly  touched  the  light- 
colored  tops  of  her  patent-leather  shoes,  so  higr  reeled 
that  she  walked  like  a  toe-dancer.  Her  furs  were  a 
shower  of  imitation  mink  heads,  with  sly  shoe-button  eyes, 
and  she  carried  her  fluffy  muff  high  on  a  convexly  carried 
figure  that  seemed  about  to  break  in  two  forward.  Her 
knees  were  bent  and  one  foot  trailed  the  other  limply. 

Judy  was  a  dressmaker,  and  she  had  to  dress  in  the 
very  latest  style.  Women  in  the  very  latest  style  rarely 
look  quite  respectable,  no  matter  what  the  style.  Be 
sides,  Judy  looked  as  frail  and  clinging  and  deleterious  as 
a  parasitic  vine.  Yet  for  all  her  swagger  and  her  sophis 
tication  and  her  willingness  to  flirt  a  little  to  keep  in 
practice,  her  heart  was  full  of  Irish  ice,  and  her  fist  was 
quick  to  repel  the  first  adventurer  beyond  what  she  called 
"the  dead-line  every  lady  draws." 

Shane  had  more  or  less  implied  that  when  he  got 
a  steady  job  he  would  relieve  her  of  the  necessity  of 
ever  working  again  with  her  delicate  hands.  She  had 
more  or  less  accepted  this  as  a  more  or  less  formal  be 
trothal.  But,  knowing  Shane,  she  had  made  no  hasty 
preparations  for  closing  her  shop. 

Though  she  looked  as  if  she  could  hardly  stand  alone, 
she  was  a  very  busy  business  woman.  Though  she  found 
strength  somewhere  to  dance  all  night  every  now  and 
then,  she  also  got  to  Mass  with  fair  regularity  by  setting 
her  alarm-clock  into  her  precious  hours  of  sleep  and  accept 
ing  it  as  a  trump  of  Gabriel  to  wake  her  from  the  dead. 

Judy's  dressmaking  and  milliner  shop  was  nearly  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  She  had  not  forgotten  her  Irish  birth  and 
she  was  proud  of  her  Hibernian  name,  but  business  is 

57 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

business,  and  she  felt  that  "Judy  Dugan"  would  not  look 
enticing  or  authoritative  on  a  window.  So  her  plate- 
glass  and  her  business  cards  read: 


JULIE  DU  GANNE 

MODES  CHAPEAUX 


And  she  made  some  money,  too.  But  it  was  hard  to 
save  any.  For  her  mother  consumed  an  amazing  quan 
tity  of  medicine  and  invalid's  foods  and  ran  up  doctor's 
bills  unceasingly.  But  her  father  was  Judy's  one  great 
extravagance.  She  really  could  not  afford  her  father. 
But  neither  could  she  let  him  go.  He  cost  her  strength 
and  suffering  and  time  and  money.  She  was  always 
maneuvering  him  into  jobs  and  out  of  trouble,  and  she 
was  always  protecting  his  pride  at  the  cost  of  her  own. 
To  keep  people  from  understanding  him  she  was  always 
getting  herself  misunderstood. 

And  never  more  so  than  now,  when,  in  her  brusque 
way,  she  tried  to  escape  from  Delia's  sympathy  with  a 
sharp,  "Come  along,  Shane." 

Shane  followed  her  into  the  parlor,  wearing  a  craven 
look,  plainly  enjoyed  by  the  three  brothers,  who  buffeted 
one  another  with  triumphant  amusement  at  his  convic 
tion,  and  lingered  to  have  further  fun  with  him.  But 
Delia  sank  into  her  chair,  crushed. 

When  Judy  had  closed  the  parlor  door  she  turned 
to  Shane  as  if  expecting  to  be  kissed.  He  was  in 
no  mood  for  caresses,  with  those  voices  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door.  He  vouchsafed  a  bit  of  perfunctory 
blarney : 

58 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

"Well,  Miss  Judy,  and  how  is  it  you  are?  You're 
lookin'  fine." 

Judy  felt  the  rebuff  and  threw  herself  back  coldly. 

"  I  came  to  see  if  you  had  news  of  that  job  for  pa?" 

"Well,"  Shane  groaned,  "I've  spoken  to  several  of  the 
big  fellows  in  the  Health  Department — Pat  Gartland,  for 
instance." 

"  His  wife  is  one  of  my  customers,"  said  Judy.  "  I  guess 
I  can  work  that  pull  myself." 

"But  he  says  what  they  ahl  say:  that  while  you  are  a 
fine  gerl  and  charming  and — " 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that.  One  of  them  told  me  that  so 
sweetly  that  I  slapped  the  face  off  him." 

"They  all  say  that  your  father,  while  he  is  a  very  nice 
old  man,  he — he — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  sighed  Judy. 

"It's  not  only  that  he  takes  a  little  too  kindly  to  the 
drop,  but  when  he  has  liquor  taken  he  always  wants  to 
whip  everybody.  And  he's  such  a  wake  old  man  that 
he's  hard  to  handle  without  breakin'  him  entirely.  That 
last  job  I  got  him  with  the  Public  Works,  remimber,  he 
said  he  could  lick  the  boss  with  one  hand  and  the  United 
States  Airmy  with  the  other." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  Judy  groaned.  "And  he's  so  peace 
able  when  he's  himself!" 

"That's  the  trouble.     He's  so  rayrely  himself." 

"But  suppose  he  promised  not  to  look  at  a  bottle  again 
— if  he  promised  solemnly" — she  pleaded. 

"Oh,  Judy — you  know  he  tosses  off  a  pledge  like  it  was 
a  gulp  of  potheen." 

"I  know.  He  means  well,  but — O  Lord!  What  can 
I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  She  was  gnawing  her  lip  fran 
tically  and  beating  the  carpet  with  her  flippant  little 
shoes. 

59 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Shane's  heart  went  out  to  her  in  a  rush  of  pity  and  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  silky  shoulder. 

"There's  one  opening  yet.  I  pesthered  Pat  Gartland 
till  he  offered  to  give  the  ould  boy  another  last  chance 
if  he  promised — " 

Judy  leaped  up  in  a  flame  of  hope : 

"Promise?  Oh,  he'll  promise  anything.  I'll  promise 
it  for  him." 

"That  won't  quite  do.  Pat  said  he'd  give  the  ould 
bosthoon  a  foine,  aisy — a  fine,  easy  job  as  inspecthor — 
inspector  in  the  Board  of  Health,  if — if  he  would  go  to  a 
priest  and  take  the  pledge  with  all  the  sacredness  the 
Church  can  put  on  it." 

"Oh,  that's  splendid!"  Judy  cried. 

Shane  was  not  so  sure.  "The  old  felly  is  proud,  you 
know,  and  he  can  be  sthubborn  as  all  the  goats  in  Ireland." 

"He'll  have  to  do  it — pride  or  no  pride!"  said  Judy. 

Shane's  eyes  grew  softer  on  her.  "I  was  thinkin'  it 
might  be  nicer  were  we  to  keep  it  in  the  family.  Me 
cousin,  Dermot  Morahan,  bein'  a  priest,  I  might  fix  it 
up  with  him  to  throw  such  a  scare  into  the  old  man  as 
would  frighten  him  off  liquor  like  it  was  poison." 

"Fine !     Oh,  that's  wonderful." 

"But  will  your  father  go  to  him?" 

"Of  course  he  will." 

"Better  ask  his  consint.  Like  all  those  wake  ones,  he's 
powerful  sthrong  on  pride.  You'd  better  ask  him  before 
I  tahk  to  Father  Dermot." 

"  I  will,  and  I'll  let  you  know  right  away.  And  promise 
me  one  thing  more — that  you  will  tell  no  one  of  this. 
I  can't  bear  the  shame  of  it." 

"Sure  I  promise.  I  swear  it!"  said  Shane,  and  in  his 
eagerness  to  have  the  compromising  interview  ended  and 
to  get  back  into  the  public  view,  he  opened  the  parlor 

60 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

door  just  as  Judy,  half  blinded  with  tears  and  hysterical 
with  gratitude,  cried : 

"Oh,  Shane,  you're  the  dearest  boy  in  the  world,  and 
I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  you've  made  me.  Umm!" 

And  with  that  she  seized  him  in  her  arms,  popped  a  kiss 
on  his  cheek,  and  ran  away,  nodding  good-bys  and  dabbing 
her  tears  from  her  leaded  eyelashes.  Kate  had  turned 
from  the  window  at  the  sound  of  the  opening  door  and 
she  saw  the  kiss.  Delia,  who  had  risen  from  her  chair, 
saw  it,  and  fell  back  with  a  groan.  The  three  sons  saw 
it  and  grinned  angrily. 

IV 

Shane,  embarrassed  to  stupefaction,  understood  how 
everything  was  misunderstood  and  was  too  angry  to 
explain.  It  seemed  disloyal  to  Judy  even  to  discuss  her 
conduct.  He  went  for  his  hat. 

Myles  could  not  help  saying:  "You  see?  What  was  I 
tellin'  you!  And  he  saying  she's  nothin'  to  him!" 

"It's  thrue,"  Shane  roared,  rounding  on  him.  "Judy 
is  a  fine  girl,  too  fine  for  toads  the  likes  of  you  to  miscall 
out  of  her  name." 

There  might  have  been  blows  passed  if  Delia  had  not 
stepped  into  the  gap.  She  sighed  with  gentle  reproach, 
"Thrue  for  you,  Shane,  but  werrunt  it  betther  for  others 
to  be  sayin'  it  than  you?" 

"And  why  not  me?" 

Delia  turned  to  her  sons  and  drove  them  out,  crying : 

"For  why  are  yous  all  loafin'  here?  Have  yous  no 
jobs?  Get  to  them,  and  don't  stay  cluttherin'  up  the 
house." 

They  understood  and  laughed  at  her  as  they  kissed  her, 
and  laughed  at  Shane  as  they  waved  him  fare-you-wells. 
Delia  closed  the  door  on  them  and  turned  to  her  uneasy 

61 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

nephew.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "And  now, 
Shane,  for  all  you're  my  sister's  son,  you're  more  like  one 
of  mine,  and  it's  like  a  mother  I  feel  toward  you." 

"And  you've  been  my  mother  in  America." 

"Then  maybe  I  have  the  right  to  say  it,  Shaneen  avic, 
but  it's  the  long  sorry  I'd  be  to  see  you  turning  away  from 
one  gerl  to  another.  I'll  ahlways  remimber  how  you  used 
to  miss  the  old  home  gerleen  when  first  you  come  out. 
You  used  to  tell  me  and  tell  me  how  Moyna  looked  to  you 
when  you  told  her  good-by  at  the  top  of  the  long  hill  there 
that  falls  away  from  Lisdoonvarna.  You  said  she  stood 
in  the  rain  with  an  old  petticoat  for  her  only  umberella, 
and  barefutted  at  that,  her  people  bein'  so  poor,  and  she 
wavin'  you  good-by  as  far  as  you  could  see  her,  which 
wasn't  far  for  you  cryin'  so  hard.  You  used  to  write  to 
her  every  boat,  and  you  used  to  tahk  about  no  soul  else. 
It's  hard  if  you've  forgotten  her,  but  men  doos  forget. 
Still,  if  your  heart's  changed  in  you,  Shanie,  oughtn't  you 
first  to  let  Moyna  know  she's  no  cahl  to  keep  on  waitin' 
on  you?  I'm  sayin'  it  that  loves  you  and  likes  Judy,  and 
have  niver  laid  eyes  on  Moyna,  only  in  me  mind." 

Shane  checked  her  with  a  fierce  cry:  "But  don't  you 
understand?  Can't  you  lave  me  explain  it  a  minyute?" 

And  then  Michael  came  forth  from  the  bedroom,  dressed 
in  his  best — dressed  in  the  things  he  wore  to  High  Mass 
on  a  Patrick's  Day. 

Delia  put  up  her  hand  to  silence  Shane.  If  he  had 
wanted  to  speak,  he  would  have  been  overwhelmed  by 
the  domineering  Michael. 

"Well,"  he  snorted,  "here  am  I  in  me  own  uniforrum, 
disguised  as  a  gintleman.  And,  Shane,  it's  high  time 
you  were  gettin'  yours  from  the  tailor." 

"What's  this  whillabaloo?"  Delia  stormed.  "What's 
this  you're  gettin'  so  readied  up  for?" 

62 


SENT    FOR    OUT 

'Til  pour  it  all  in  your  ear,  woman  dear,  when  we're 
alone  with  ourselves.  Hoostle  your  stoomps  now  and  dig 
out  the  money  for  Shane's  uniforrum." 

He  shouted  down  all  her  protests,  even  Shane's  protests 
against  accepting  the  loan.  He  assured  the  youth  that 
he  would  learn  all  he  needed  to  know  in  good  time,  and 
sent  him  off.  And  only  then  he  consented  to  explain  to 
his  distracted  wife: 

"It's  about  Shane's  gerl,  Moyna  Killilea,"  he  beamed. 

"Och,  it's  a  sad  day  for  Moyna  Killilea." 

"What  talk  have  you? — it's  the  grandest  day  iver  for 
Moyna  Killilea." 

"Thank  God  for  all  things,"  Delia  groaned.  "She'll 
not  know  of  this." 

"Not  know  of  what?"  Michael  shouted,  upset  in  the 
progress  of  the  oration  he  had  been  composing  as  he 
dressed. 

Delia  tormented  him  further  with  her  own  torment: 

"Praise  to  the  saints,  there's  two  thousand  miles  of  salt 
wather  bechune  this  and  the  salt  wather  will  be  in 
her  eyes  whin — " 

Michael  shouted  her  down  in  haste: 

"Two  thousand  miles  is  it?  And  what  would  you  say 
was  she  to  walk  in  that  door  this  minyute?" 

"I'd  say  me  prayers  against  the  fairies  would  be  in  it." 

"No  fairies  at  all — whativer.  Unless  it's  me  that's  one 
of  thim." 

"And  now  what?"  Delia  gasped  in  a  smother  of  wonder. 

Michael's  gorgeous  smile  flowed  slowly  across  his  face 
like  treacle  and  ended  in  a  wink  so  tight  that  it  seemed 
he  would  never  unknot  his  features  again. 

"Listen,  woman  dear,  whilst  I  tell  you  a  tale.  Shane 
has  been  mopin'  away  these  three  years  now  to  get  the 
money  for  to  bring  his  Moyna  out,  hasn't  he?" 

63 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"He  was  that,  but  now — " 

"And  ahlways  losin'  his  job  in  the  nick  of  time,  hasn't 
he? — wasn't  he?" 

"That  he  did." 

"Well?"     He  made  three  long  syllables  of  the  word. 

"Well?"  she  echoed,  fiercely. 

"Well,  use  your  brain,  if  you  have  anny." 

"You're  not  standin'  there  tellin'  me  that  you — " 

"Come  on,  come  on,  you're  gettin'  warrum!  I  got  in 
a  little  extra  money  a  while  back,  and  Shane  fell  in  with 
a  job  I  thought  would  be  more  permaninter  than  the 
others,  and  so — now  can  you  guess  it?" 

Delia  spoke  in  a  ghastly,  ghostly  whisper : 

"And  so  you  sint  her  the  money!" 

"The  money  I  sint  her.     Go  on!" 

"To  come  over  here!" 

"To  come  over  here!  Grand!  You  guessed  almost 
wit 'out  help.  You  see,  I  had  such  blessed  succiss  bringin' 
me  mother  out,  I  got  kind  of  addicthed  to  it,  so  I  inclosed 
some  money  and  wrote  to  Moyna  that  Shane  was  fadin' 
out  entirely  for  lack  of  her,  and  I  was  thinkin'  'twould  be 
fine  for  to  have  her  land  here  unexpecthed  and  I'd  have 
him  here  and  she  could  come  leppin'  into  his  airms  like. 
So  she  cabled  she'd  be  here  and  I'm  on  me  way  to  the 
dock  and  Shane  is  on  his  way  for  his  uniforrum.  Now 
tell  me  if  he  won't  be  surprised  and  plased  to  see  her 
walk  in?" 

He  tried  another  of  his  gorilla  caresses,  but  Delia  did 
not  strike  at  him  or  resist.  She  groaned: 

"Shane'll  be  surprised  full  and  plinty;  how  plased  he'll 
be  when  she  walks  in  will  depind  on  what  she  walks  in  in. 
Shane  used  to  tell  me  she  was  as  nice-lookin'  a  gerl  as 
was  in  all  Clare,  but  Clare's  not  New  York,  and  three 
years  makes  a  power  of  difference  in  a  gerl's  face,  not  to 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

mintion  the  heart  of  a  lad.     Maybe  Shane's  heart  ain't 
where  it  was." 

"It  'd  better  be,"  Michael  rumbled,  his  most  ferocious 
face  returning.  "If  his  heart  ain't  thrue,  I'll  have  it  out 
of  him.  If  he  breaks  her  heart,  I'll  break  his  head.  The 
poor  trustin'  colleen — waitin'  and  waitin' — and  him  lavin' 
her  wait — and  her  pinin'  away — ah,  it's  crool — that's 
what  it  is,  it's  crool.  Her  fare  over  was  thirty-nine 
dollars." 


Delia  began  to  rock  with  an  anxiety  that  was  contagious, 
for  Michael  clutched  her  and  demanded: 

"What's  set  you  to  doubtin'  Shane  O'Mealia?  He's  as 
dacent  a  lad  as  you'll  find  in  a  day's  walk — and  your  own 
sister's  boy." 

"Och,  it's  never  a  know  I  know  what's  in  a  man's 
heart,"  Delia  mourned.  "But  I've  seen  manny's  the 
young  lad  come  out  of  Ireland  lavin'  his  heart  behind  him, 
and  scattherin'  promises  as  thick  as  snow;  but  when  he 
gets  here  and  works  hard  and  saves  little,  things  costin' 
such  a  terrible  cost,  and  he  sees  fine-lookin'  gerls  goin' 
past  him  in  dhroves,  and  he  lonely  and  young — and  there's 
the  dances  and  the  hurlin'-matches  and  the  futbahl,  and 
the  streets,  and  everywhere  gerls  laughin' — and  he  don't 
mane  to  be  unthrue,  but  the  colleen  at  home  is  out  of 
sight — and  he's  lonely  and — and  it  takes  a  lot  of  days 
to  make  a  week,  and  a  month  is  a  lahng  time  to  be  lone 
some  and  a  year  is  an  ahful  lahng  while.  It's  three  years 
now  Shane's  waitin'  and  starvin',  and  him  so  handsome, 
the  gerls  annoys  him  with  their  smiles.  I  don't  blame 
the  poor  lads  for  growin'  desprut  and  takin'  up  with  what 
beauties  they  find  to  hand.  Maybe  that's  what's  come 
over  Shane.  I  don't  know.  I  say  maybe.  ButMoyna — 

65 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

och,  the  heart-scald  to  her  should  she  find  him  cold 
to  her." 

The  experience  was  not  unfamiliar  to  Michael  among 
the  thousands  on  thousands  of  Irish  pouring  into  the  coun 
try,  but  he  could  not  believe  it  happenable  to  his  wards. 

"Ah,  somebody's  been  puttin'  bad  stories  on  Shane," 
he  smiled.  "The  divil  sail  away  with  you  and  your 
sorries.  Ahl  I'm  sorry  for  is  that  I  didn't  tell  it  you  before 
I  sint  for  her  out.  But,  howane'er,  she's  here  and  I'm  to  go 
to  meet  her." 

"Arrun't  you  goin'  to  be  late,  as  you  were  when  your 
mother  come  in?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Michael.  "I  niver  make  the  same 
mistake  but  the  wan  time.  I'll  bate  the  boat  to  the  dock 
by  an  hour  at  laste.  You  make  Shane  slip  intil  his 
regimintals  and — well,  I'm  thinkin'  we'd  better  give  up 
part  of  the  surprise.  Too  much  surprise  is  a  dangerous 
thing.  Let  you  tell  him  she's  to  be  here  and  tell  him  just 
to  look  surprised.  That's  safer.  There's  no  knowin' 
what  a  man  '11  do  when  he's  reely  surprised.  Well,  I'm 
gone  now.  Don't  you  fret,  honey.  It  couldn't  go  wrong 
on  me — and  me  squandherin'  thirty-nine  dollars  on  her 
fare.  Good-by  again,  and  I'll  tiliphone  you  from  the 
dock  before  we  stairt  from  there  for  here." 

He  kissed  her  and  left  her  in  a  slump  of  woe.  He 
reached  the  dock  just  as  the  boat  was  reported  at  the 
quarantine  station.  Being  too  early  has  much  the  same 
peril  as  being  too  late. 

Michael  found  upon  the  pier  an  old  political  crony  now 
high  among  the  officials  of  the  Dock  Department.  Michael 
was  inspired  to  urge  this  man  to  give  Shane  a  position. 
It  would  be  double  joy  to  present  Shane  with  his  wife-to- 
be  wrapped  up  in  a  new  job. 

Naturally  Michael  led  the  official  across  the  wide  street 

66 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

to  a  proper  counsel-chamber,  where  he  poured  into  him 
beer  and  eloquence  concerning  the  merits  of  Shane. 

The  best  of  it  was  that  he  gained  his  point  and  forced 
his  friend  to  promise  Shane  a  comfortable  post.  The 
worst  of  it  was  that  by  the  time  he  had  clinched  the 
bargain  and  toasted  its  health,  Moyna's  steamer  was 
docked  and  all  its  passengers  ashore  and  passed  through 
the  customs  gantlet  and  gone  away.  When  Michael 
strolled  back  to  the  empty  pier  he  was  furious  at  "the 
dirthy  thrick  the  shtamer  played  on  him,  shlippin'  a-past 
him  unbeknownst." 

But  that  did  not  mend  matters,  nor  did  it  forewarn 
Delia  of  Moyna's  arrival.  The  first  she  knew  of  that  was 
when  she  was  startled  from  her  almost  comfortable  despair 
by  the  sound  of  knuckles  on  the  front  door.  She  called 
to  her  daughter: 

"Katie,  would  you  see  who  that  is  knockin'  like  they'd 
never  seen  sight  nor  light  of  a  door-bell?" 

Katie  trudged  to  the  door,  expecting  some  yokel  of  an 
errand-boy.  Instead,  she  was  greeted  by  a  strange  and 
frightened  girl  standing  among  her  luggage  and  asking 
in  all  timidity: 

"Does  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Morahan  live  here,  and  are  they 
expectin'  a  visitor  from  over  the  wather?" 

"Yes,"  Kate  gasped,  "they  do — they  are.  You're  not 
Miss  Killilea?" 

"  Yis,  ma'am,  thank  you  kindly.  And  askin'  your  pair- 
don,  but  you're  not  Miss  Morahan  that  come  visitin'  us  in 
Lisdoonvarna  some  fourteen  years  back?  Or  are  you?" 

Kate  nodded  and  the  visitor  went  on: 

"Ah,  I  remimber  you.  You've  not  oldered  the  one 
whit.  But  me — I  was  only  out  six  years  then — I've 
changed  beyond  your  recollectin'.  And  plase,  is  Mr. 
O'Mealia  home,  if  you  plase?" 

6  67 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Kate  was  slow  to  understand,  but  now  she  shouted  aft : 
"Ma!    Ma!    Here's  Shane's  Moyna!" 


VI 

Delia  came  running  to  the  door  and  enveloped  the  girl 
in  her  arms  and  rebuked  Kate  for  holding  her  there,  and 
ordered  her  to  help  in  Moyna's  huge  old  valise  and  the 
bundles  she  had  lugged  up  the  stairs.  Herself,  she  kissed 
the  cold  red  cheeks  and  brought  her  to  the  marvelous 
steam  radiator  that  had  caused  Michael's  mother  such 
amazement.  And  since  the  girl  had  blundered  into  a 
tragedy,  Delia  doubled  her  natural  hospitality,  kissed  her 
again,  fluttered  about  her,  helped  unwind  her  out  of  her 
shawl  and  pulled  off  the  seedy  old  jacket  and  shook  her 
head  over  the  coarse  black  serge  skirt  and  the  cumbrous 
shoes. 

"Is  it  an  angel  that's  dropped  through  the  skylight?" 
Delia  rhapsodized.  "Sure  you've  had  the  use  of  the  May 
dew  on  your  cheeks.  And  the  roses  in  them!  We  don't 
see  such  cheeks  in  this  pasty-faced  town.  Oh,  but  you're 
a  born  blossom — " 

"And  have  you  seen  Shane?"  said  Moyna. 

"Where's  Michael,  I'd  like  to  know,"  said  Delia. 
"Didn't  he  meet  you?" 

"Never  a  meet  he  met  me  whatever,  ma'am  dear," 
said  Moyna.  "I  waited  and  waited.  I  was  that  flut- 
thered,  I  thought  I'd  fly  away  with  myself  entirely.  I 
asked  a  tahl  man  in  uniforrum — one  of  the  constabulary 
he  was — did  he  know  where  Michael  Morahan  might  be, 
and  he  knew  him,  and,  seem'  I  had  the  addhress  on  an 
old  letther,  he  told  me  where  he  lived,  and  said  I'd  better 
joomp  into  a  taxicab,  as  he  called  it — it's  a  kind  of  an 
inside-cair  without  horses,  you  know." 

68 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

"So  I  thought  I'd  betther  not  linger  on  the  quay; 
and  for  ahl  the  expinse  of  the  carriage,  I'd  betther  not  be 
tryin'  for  to  find  me  way  in  New  Yark,  and  the  bobby 
calls  me  a  driver  and  helps  me  boxes  in  and  lifts  me  in 
the  cair  and — whirroo! — I  thought  the  Old  Black  Boy  had 
me  on  his  wings.  But  before  I  could  straighten  me  hat 
and  me  backbone,  sure  here  I  was.  I  says  to  the  jarvey, 
'How  much-?'  and  he  says,  'The  clock  says  sivinty  tints,' 
and  I  tould  him  that  was  a  quare  kind  of  tahk  to  have  out 
of  a  clock.  But  I  suppose  it's  the  American  language  and 
I  paid  it  and — where's  Shane  O'Mealia,  if  you  plase, 
ma'am?" 

"Sure  Michael  left  here  in  time  to  be  there  twice,"  said 
Delia,  sparring  for  her  wits. 

Moyna  seemed  to  catch  a  note  of  evasion  in  her  manner 
and  clutched  her  arm,  pleading : 

1 '  But  Shane  O'Mealia !  I'm  askin'  you  kindly.  Where's 
my  Shanawn?  Has  somewhat  happened  him  belike?" 

Delia  gathered  her  in  and  soothed  her.  "Whisht, 
honey;  he's  never  dramin'  you  was  on  this  side  of  the 
wather,  and  he's  gone  for  to  get  his  uniforrum." 

"Uniforrum?    Is  it  a  constable,  too,  he's  goin'  to  be?" 

"No,  a  soldier." 

"Oh,  the  saints  bind  down  to  me,"  cried  Moyna.  "A 
recruitin'  sergeant  has  got  him  from  me  before  I'm  here?" 

"No,  it's  the  Sixty-nint'  he's  officer  in." 

Moyna's  terror  fled  instantly.  "Oh,  he  used  to  write 
me  manny's  the  letther  about  the  Sixty-ninth — and  he's 
an  officer  in  it  now  like  he  was  aimin'  to  be?  Ah,  that's 
the  chat !  And  what  is  he  now — a  corpor  1  or  admir '1,  or — ' ' 

"Lootinant." 

"Och,  blathers,  he'll  make  a  grand  liftinant." 

Delia  breathed  more  easily  and  remembered  to  say: 

69 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Bad  manners  to  me  for  not  axin'  you  would  you  like 
me  to  wet  you  a  drop  of  the  tay — " 

"Oh,  I'm  that  stirred  up,  ma'am  dear,  I  could  never 
take  annything.  The  sight  of  you  and  news  of  Shane 
is  mate  and  dhrink  to  me." 

Delia  called  to  the  household  drudge: 

"Kate,  take  her  things  to  your  room  while  we  fix  up 
where  she's  to  stay.  No,  Myles  can  sleep  with  Shamus, 
and  she'll  have  his  room,  I  think." 

Kate  took  up  the  rope-bound  valise  and  a  big  bundle 
and  an  ungainly  umbrella  and  held  out  her  hand  for  a 
lesser  parcel  in  Moyna's  hand.  She  shook  her  head. 

"And  what  is  it  you've  there?  Your  other  shoes?" 
said  Delia. 

"It's  something  I  brought  you  and  Mr.  Morahan  from 
home." 

"Oh,  and  is  it  now?"  Delia  exclaimed,  like  a  child  at 
Christmas.  "Lave  me  a  look  at  it." 


VII 

She  popped  the  string  in  two  and,  unrolling  the  paper, 
took  out  a  large  clod  of  earth  with  wilted  clover  on  it. 
She  held  it  at  arm's  length  and  stared  at  it  in  silent 
tenderness,  till  her  eyes  turned  to  water  and  she  smiled 
blindly;  then  her  eyelids  quivered  and  closed  and  she 
carried  the  lump  of  soil  to  her  heart  and  sighed: 

"Shamrocks!— on  The  Sod  itself!" 

Her  tears  splashed  on  it  and  set  the  little  trefoils  to 
bobbing  about.  Moyna  explained,  eagerly: 

"They're  from  the  knockawn  just  beyant  your  mother's 
cabin.  They're  destroyed  with  the  dryness  now,  ma'am 
dear,  but  whin  I  dug  them  there  were  the  fresh  showers 
on  them  like  what's  fallin'  now." 

70 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

Delia,  with  her  eyes  clenched  and  still  raining,  was 
thinking  aloud:  "Oh,  I  can  see  them  blowin*  in  the  win'! 
They  take  me  back  again.  I  can  feel  them  like  when  I 
was  runnin'  amongst  them,  and  they  was  noddin'  and 
whimperin'  round  my  little  bare  feet." 

She  bent  her  head  and  lifted  the  sacred  turf  to  her  lips. 

"It's  not  much  they  are,  ma'am  dear,"  said  Moyna, 
"but— they're  Irish." 

"Ah,  what  could  you  bring  with  you,"  Delia  laughed  and 
sobbed,  "betther  than  shamrocks?  and  yourself?" 

Moyna  waited  till  she  had  finished  her  good  cry,  then 
she  began  again: 

"But,  ma'am  dear,  where's  Shane?  He's  had  time  for 
to  uniforrum  a  rigiment,  horse  and  fut." 

"Hell  be  here  soon,"  said  Delia. 

Moyna  glanced  down  at  herself  and  shook  her  head. 
"It's  a  disgrace  I  am  to  be  seen  in  a  city.  Miss  Kate 
dear,  could  I  hide  this  old  hat  somewhere,  and  would  you 
mind  did  I  prink  up  a  little  and  chase  a  comb  through  this 
hair?" 

Kate  led  her  into  Myles's  room,  and  she  opened  her 
valise  and  got  out  her  paltry  equipment.  But  when  she 
let  down  her  red  hair  she  was  rich  as  Queen  Godiva. 

"Come  out  here  where  it's  warrum  and  not  so  dark," 
said  Delia,  leading  her  into  the  dining-room,  which  was 
also  the  living-room.  "Ah,  Moyna,  but  it's  the  beauty 
you  are — and  your  hair — it's  a  wonder  the  comb  don't 
burn  up  in  it." 

Without  her  ugly  hat  and  her  worn  cloak,  with  just 
herself,  she  was  indeed  beautiful — her  gray  eyes  char 
coaled  with  black  lashes,  her  cheeks  unimaginably  crim 
soned  with  the  sharp  wet  winds  she  had  lived  in,  her  hair 
flinging  about  her  like  a  banner  as  she  bent  and  fought  it 
with  the  comb. 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Delia  attempted  a  further  compliment. 

"I  wonder  the  min  in  Lisdoonvarna  did  not  prevint 
you  goin'  away." 

Moyna  laughed  a  bit. 

"There's  wan  or  two  been  pestherin'  me  not  to  lave  it, 
but  the  thought  of  Shane  O'Mealia  pulled  me  like  a  rope. 
It  seems  like  it  was  that  that  drew  the  ship  through  the 
broad  water.  But  Shane — it's  little  he  thought  of  me,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

"What  else  had  he  to  think  of?" 

"  Och,  meal-a-murdher,  there  was  women  in  this  country 
before  I  got  here.  I  saw  slathers  of  them  in  the  streets 
as  I  come  along,  and  betther  dressed  on  a  week-day  than 
I'll  be  in  heaven.  The  best  in  Lisdoonvarna  is  what  the 
pigs  in  the  New  Yark  streets  would  turn  up  their  noses  at." 

"What  eyes  could  Shane  have  for  the  likes  of  thim?" 
Delia  protested. 

But  the  girl  was  growing  suspicious.  "He'd  hardly 
help  seein'  some  of  them.  They  dress  that  grand  you'd 
hear  them  with  your  both  eyes  shut.  Does  he  never  go 
about?" 

"Not  much." 

"To  no  dances?" 

"What  cahl  has  he  to  go  to  dances?" 

"Och,  he  that  used  to  wahk  ahl  day  to  dance  ahl  night!" 

"But  that  was  with  you." 

"Well,  there  was  others  he'd  dance  with,  too,  even 
there.  We  fought  like  fury  over  it.  I  was  always  quick  of 
timper,  bad  manners  to  me.  But  I've  been  afraid — three 
years  is  a  lahng  while,  ma'am  honey.  Are  you  sure  he 
loves  no  other  gerls — are  you  certain  sure,  ma'am  dear?" 

"Why,  Moyna,  what  at  all  ails  you?" 

The  door-bell  shivered  brazenly  and  Moyna  jumped 
to  her  feet. 

72 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

"  What's  that?" 

"The  door-bell!"  Delia  laughed,  and  motioned  Kate 
to  answer  it.  On  Moyna's  red  cheeks  there  came  a  redder 
red. 

"Is  it  a  bell  you  have?  Sure,  but  you're  the  quality 
here.  And  me  knowin'  no  better  than  to  knock." 

Her  blush  of  shame  was  scattered  by  the  incursion  of 
Judy  Dugan  in  her  same  fashionable  clothes,  with  the 
same  dashing  manner.  She  spoke  briskly:  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Morahan,  isn't  Shane  here?" 

Seeing  Moyna,  she  stopped  short  with  a  disinterested, 
"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"I  want  you  should  meet  Miss  Killilea,"  said  Delia, 
sternly. 

VIII 

Judy,  hearing  a  name  that  meant  nothing  to  her, 
spoke  as  New-Yorkers  speak  to  strangers,  with  a  curt  nod. 

"And  how  is  your  honor?  and  hopin'  you're  well," 
said  Moyna,  looking  her  up  and  down  with  an  instant 
terror  of  jealousy  because  of  her  use  of  the  name  of  Shane 
and  her  outrageously  fashionable  clothes. 

The  contrast  was  complete  between  them.  Judy,  born 
in  Ireland,  but  brought  over  as  an  infant  in  arms,  was 
citified  to  the  last  degree,  used  to  the  sight  and  environ 
ment  of  soft  things  and  no  heavy  labor;  she  was  slim 
and  limp  and  lithe  and  dressed  in  the  glossiest,  most 
feminine  things,  and  she  stood  in  the  attitude  of  a  feather 
boa. 

Moyna  stood  squarely  on  her  large  feet  in  low-heeled 
shoes.  She  had  been  used  from  childhood  to  hard  labor, 
to  scrabbling  for  potatoes  in  wet  ground,  to  carrying 
great  creels  of  turf  on  hip  or  shoulder;  she  had  gone  bare 
foot  and  barehead  through  rain  and  mist  the  greater  part 

73 


EVER   AGO 

of  her  life,  and  her  beauty  was  stalwart,  big-thewed, 
broad-bosomed,  high-colored,  almost  primeval. 

She  looked  as  if  she  could  have  easily  twisted  Judy 
into  a  bow-knot,  but  for  experience  she  was  a  child  in 
comparison.  It  was  Moyna  that  was  smitten  with  fear 
at  the  light  chatter  of  the  nervous  Judy,  who  rattled  on: 

"Forgive  me  for  rushing  in  on  you  like  this  and  dashing 
off  again,"  said  Judy,  never  dreaming  that  she  was  scat 
tering  torpedoes,  "but  I  thought  Shane  would  be  here." 

"Will  you  wait — or  won't  you?"  said  Delia,  afraid  to 
live  in  such  danger. 

"Can't  stop  a  moment,"  said  Judy.  "Would  you 
mind  taking  a  message  for  him?" 

"Sure  I  will,"  sighed  Delia. 

Judy's  face  was  suddenly  wreathed  with  smiles  and 
she  cried:  "It's  such  good  news  for  both  of  us.  Just  tell 
him  that  I  said  I've  seen  my  father,  and  he  has  given  his 
full  consent  gladly,  and  that  we'll  all  three  go  to  the  priest 
to-morrow  noon  together.  Tell  the  dear  boy  that,  will 
you?  He'll  understand  and  arrange  it  all  and  I'll  be  ever 
so  much  obliged.  Good-by;  delighted  to  have  met  you, 
Miss  Killigrew." 

She  hurried  out,  leaving  Delia  and  Kate  helpless,  and 
Moyna  aghast.  Delia  and  Kate  exchanged  glances  of 
panic,  and  in  Moyna  anxiety  and  a  wild  fear  grew  like  an 
oncoming  storm.  She  began  to  put  up  her  hair,  jamming 
its  coils  together  and  stabbing  it  with  pins  as  if  they  were 
knives ;  and  she  was  yammering : 

"Her  father  gave  his  consint!  and  they'll  go  to  the 
priest  to-morrow ! — her  father's  consint — the  priest !  What 
does  it  mane?  Who  is  she?" 

" She's  a — a  friend  of  ours;  and  a  neighbor." 

"And  a  neighbor  of  Shane's,  and  a  fri'nd  of  his!  And 
she  niver  heard  of  me,  nor  me  of  her.  And  what,  if  you 

74 


SENT   FOR   OUT 

plase,  ma'am  dear — oh,  dear  ma'am — what  do  you  make 
out  of  this  goin'  to  the  priest?" 

"I — I  don't  know  what  it  could  mane,"  Delia  stam 
mered. 

Moyna  shuddered  in  a  tempest  of  despair.  "Oh  yes, 
you  do,  ma'am,  askin'  your  pairdon.  And  so  do  I. 
They're  going  to  the  priest  to  have  the  banns  called. 
That's  what  it  manes.  They'll  be  asked  out  next  Sunday. 
They're  to  be  married  in  three  weeks.  For  all  I've  waited 
three  years,  I'm  not  needed.  For  all  my  surprisin'  Shane, 
I'm  too  late.  It's  too  late  I  am!" 

She  broke  down  and  wept  with  all  her  might,  burying 
face  in  the  depths  of  her  hair,  and  tearing  at  the  strands, 
till  Delia  was  frantic. 

* '  Oh,  mercy  be  among  us !    This  is  beyant  the  beyants !" 

Moyna's  face  came  out  of  her  hair  in  a  revulsion  to 
wrath.  "  Is  it  a  heart  he  has  in  him,  that  Shane,  or  is  it  a 
hotel?  Oh,  it's  the  bitther  day  I  ever  set  fut  on  the  ocean. 
But  I  never  thought  Shane  O'Mealia  would  go  for  to  be 
makin'  a  fool  of  me  like  this." 

Delia  tried  to  reassure  her. 

"Ah,  set  no  store  by  Judy's  talk,  avourneen.  She's  a 
lahng  tongue  on  her.  Shane's  not  the  slieveen  to  play  fast 
and  loose." 

"And  is  he  not,  now?"  Moyna  raved.  "Did  he  lave 
me  in  Ireland  three  years?  Yis !  Did  he  sind  for  me  out? 
No!  Did  he  meet  me  at  the  dock?  No!  Did  I  find 
him  here?  No!  Who  did  I  find  here?  Her!  Runnin' 
in  with  her,  'Tell  Shane  this  and  tell  Shane  that!'  Was 
he  her  pig,  she  couldn't  have  talked  more  like  ownin' 
him!" 

Delia's  wits  were  gone  entirely;  she  could  only  offer 
random  inspirations  such  as  they  were:  "Och,  Moyna, 
Shane  wouldn't  trade  you  for  his  pick  of  the  stars." 

75 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Well,  he  can  have  his  pick  of  them,"  said  Moyna. 
"I'll  lave  him  the  free  hand  of  them."  Suddenly  her 
violence  and  her  noise  were  at  an  end.  She  dashed  her 
tears  from  her  cheeks  with  the  back  of  her  fist  roughly, 
and  stood  wrestling  down  the  sobs  surging  in  her  breast. 
She  fought  herself  to  a  standstill  and  then  laughed  softly 
and  bitterly  at  herself  with  a  meekness  that  was  harder 
for  Delia  to  bear  than  all  the  outcries  of  her  pride. 

"Well,  afther  ahl,  what  cahl  have  I  to  be  carry  in  on 
like  this?  Who  is  it  I  am  that  Shane  O'Mealia  should  be 
blind  to  the  whole  worruld  because  of  me?  And  small 
blame  to  him.  For  why  should  he  be  thrue  to  an  old- 
country  goose  like  me  when  there's  queens  like  her  about  ? 
Where's  my  things?" 

She  reached  about  for  her  bundles  and  began  to  throw 
them  into  her  valise  again,  packing  in  with  them  many  a 
thumping  tear. 

Delia  caught  at  her  hands.  "  Moyna,  my  lanna,  you're 
not  quittin'  out  of  this!  Kate,  don't  lave  her  have  her 
clothes." 

Kate  snatched  away  the  scant  wardrobe  as  fast  as 
Moyna  thrust  it  in  the  valise.  Moyna  gave  up  the  strug 
gle  for  the  sake  of  manners  and  spoke  with  dreadful  calm : 

"Then  I'll  go  without,  and  good  evening  kindly  to  you, 
ma'am  dear,  and  no  hard  feelin's  on  you  for  what  you 
couldn't  help." 

She  moved  irresistibly  to  the  door,  dragging  the  clinging 
women  with  her,  Delia  wailing : 

"But,  darlin'  dear,  where  will  ye  spind  the  night?" 

Moyna  tossed  her  head  high:  "In  anny  hotel  but  the 
one  Shane  O'Mealia  keeps  under  his  coat,  I  won't  stay 
in  the  same  town  at  all.  I'll  wahk  over  to  Chicago  and 
spind  the  night  there.  And  the  next  mornin'  I'll  move 
on  to  Philadilphia  or  Boston,  or  anny  place  where  he'll 

76 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

not  find  me.  Not  that  he'll  try.  He'll  be  glad  to  be  red 
of  me.  And  at  that  it's  no  harm  I  wish  him  at  his  weddin' 
whin  it  comes." 

Then  the  sobs  broke  from  her,  and  in  an  irresistible 
frenzy  she  ripped  loose  the  fingers  of  the  clinging  women 
and  dashed  out,  leaving  the  hall  door  open. 

Delia  and  Kate  heard  the  diminishing  whirlwind  of  her 
stampede  down  the  stairs;  they  ran  out  into  the  hall  and 
stared  down  at  her,  and  then  in  hopeless  helplessness  re 
turned  to  the  flat.  Delia  dropped  into  a  chair  and  threw 
her  apron  up  over  her  face,  groaning: 

"Oh,  wirrasthrue,  and  sorry  on  the  day,  and  God 
break  haird  fortune!" 

IX 

Kate  ran  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open  and  called 
back:  "There  she  goes  runnin*  down  the  street  and 
people  starin'  at  her.  Moyna!  Moyna!"  she  shrieked 
down  into  the  cavern.  But  an  elevated  train  ran  by  with 
long  linked  thunders  and  drowned  her  voice.  She  closed 
the  window  and  sank  into  her  own  chair,  mumbling, 
"She's  turned  the  corner,  and  Heaven  knows  where  she'll 
go  now." 

Michael's  old  mother  began  to  call  from  her  own  room. 
She  had  been  wakened  by  Moyna's  tumult  and  had  cried 
out  unheard.  Kate  ran  to  her  now  and  wheeled  her  back 
into  the  dining-room,  where  she  was  trying  to  explain  to 
her  when  Michael  himself  came  home. 

Delia,  who  had  seemed  to  be  drained  of  strength  by  her 
ordeal,  rose  and  went  at  him  with  a  power  that  would 
have  honored  Moyna.  The  big  man  cowered  before  her 
like  a  whipped  and  whining  hound.  The  only  thing  that 
saved  him  was  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell. 

77 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Kate  admitted  a  stack  of  boxes  that  walked  in  on  a 
pair  of  legs. 

Delia,  seeing  it,  gasped,  "The  saints  shield  us,  what's 
that?" 

From  behind  the  pasteboard  tower  came  the  words, 
"It's  me — Shane,  with  me  unifornim."  The  boxes  went 
toppling  over  on  a  sofa,  revealing  him  in  a  glow  of  pride. 
"There's  a  fatigue  coat  and  a  dress  coat,  and  a  campaign 
hat,  and  two  pairs  of  pants,  and  puttees,  and  a  dress  cap, 
and  a  belt  and  a  sword  knot  and  a  sword." 

A  long,  slim  bundle  in  a  leather  case  fell  to  the  floor 
with  a  muffled  clank.  "That's  the  sword!"  he  said,  and, 
picking  it  up,  brought  it  forth  with  the  thrill  a  sword 
always  gives  a  man. 

Delia  glowered  at  him  unmoved.  "You'll  be  needin' 
a  sword  to  cut  the  knot  you're  in." 

"What's  that?"  said  Shane. 

"Moyna  Killilea  is  here — or  was." 

Shane  was  struck  by  a  very  lightning  of  surprise. 

"Moyna!  Moyna  Killilea!  Here!  In  New  York! 
When — where — how  ? ' ' 

Delia  motioned  to  the  abject  cause  of  all  the  trouble. 
"Himself  sint  for  her  out." 

"Moyna  on  this  side — in  this  house?"  Shane  stam 
mered,  in  a  chaos  of  emotions. 

"She  was,"  Delia  muttered.  "And  so  was  Judy 
Dugan.  They  met,  and  Judy  told  me  to  tell  you  that  her 
father  gave  his  consint,  and  you'd  all  three  go  to  the  priest 
together." 

"And  Moyna  heard  that?"  Shane  whispered. 

' '  Did  she  hear  it !"     Delia  laughed. 

"But  did  she  understand  what  Judy  meant?" 

"She  did  that." 

"And  what  did  she  say?" 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

"She  wished  you  luck  at  your  weddin'  with  Judy — 
and  said  she'd  take  herself  off  out  of  your  way.  And  she 
did." 

Shane  dropped  in  a  heap  on  a  chair,  wringing  his  hands 
and  groaning :  "  O  Lord !  O  Lord !  And  where  did  she  go  ?' ' 

"Out!"  said  Delia,  bitterly. 

"Out  where?     Out  where?" 

"Just  out.  She  said  she'd  walk  over  to  Chicago,  but 
I  don't  think  she'll  make  it." 

Shane  went  into  a  panic  of  remorseful  alarm.  "But 
the  poor  soul  doesn't  know  New  York.  It's  grown  dark 
already.  She'll  be  run  over.  Harm  will  befall  her.  O 
Lord!  O  Lord!  Judy  has  put  a  curse  on  me.  Where 
can  I  find  Moyna?  What  can  I  do?" 

"If  you  love  her  you'll  hunt  for  her,"  said  Delia. 

"Love  her!  Of  course  I  love  her!"  he  cried,  and,  in 
deed,  his  old  love  came  back  on  the  full  tide  of  pity  and 
fear.  "  I'll  hunt  the  town  through.  I'll  scour  the  world. 
Oh,  the  darlin'  that  she  is!  And  her  heart  must  be  broke 
in  her." 

And  so  he  dashed  out. 


Delia  turned  on  Michael,  who  looked  as  if  he  would 
like  to  follow:  "And  now,  you  big  blundherin',  slutherin', 
deceptionable  old  gob  of  a  natural,  what  are  you  goin' 
to  do  to  undo  what  you've  been  doin'?" 

It  seemed  that  nothing  but  a  miracle  could  save  Michael 
from  a  beating.  Heaven  sent  him  an  inspiration.  He 
slid  along  the  wall  past  the  threatening  foe  and  reached 
the  haven  of  the  telephone.  Curiosity  stayed  Delia's 
hand  while  he  fumbled  the  receiver  off  the  hook  and  called 
into  the  transmitter  in  a  weak  voice : 

"T'irty-wan  hundred  Spring,  Hello!  Is  this  P'lice 

79 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

Headquarthers?  Gimme  the  inspecthor.  Say,  is  this 
you,  Chief?  This  is  Mike  Morahan.  MIKE  MORA- 
HAN!  Can't  you  hear?  Are  you  gone  deaf?  Yes,  it's 
me.  I  want  you  should  sind  out  a  gineral  alairm.  A  gerl 
has  roon  off,  named  Moyna  Killilea.  She's  just  in  out  of 
the  old  counthry  and  she's — say,  Delia,  what's  she  like?" 
He  repeated  the  dictation  he  got — "red-headed,  bare 
headed,  gray-eyed,  in  a  black  serge  skirt,  wit*  no  hat  on 
her,  and  Irish  shoes  on  her  feet,  and  a  wild  look  in  her  eye 
would  scare  a  copper  up  a  lamp-post.  Send  out  worrud 
and  bring  her  in  or  I'll  have  you  broke." 

Having  bullied  the  police,  he  sidled  toward  his  hat  and 
coat  and  backed  out. 

Delia's  most  unusual  tornado  frightened  her  as  much 
as  it  did  Michael,  and  she  sank  down  in  a  whirl  of  shame 
and  grief.  Her  rocking-chair  cantered  for  miles  as  she 
discussed  with  Kate  and  old  Bridget  the  perils  that  con 
fronted  an  ignorant  country  girl  like  Moyna  in  the  night 
mazes  of  the  big  city. 

The  women  held  a  wake  over  the  girl  as  if  she  were 
already  dead.  The  sons  came  home  for  supper  and  found 
the  women  as  mournful  as  the  three  Fates,  and  the  supper 
not  started.  When  the  boys  heard  all  that  had  happened, 
they  took  nourishment  from  excitement  and  set  out  to 
add  their  wits  to  the  great  pack  of  hounds  on  the  trail  of 
the  runaway  hare. 

At  nine  o'clock,  when  Delia  was  getting  tea  and  toast 
to  replenish  her  strength  for  more  grief,  Judy  Dugan 
came  in  in  still  finer  finery.  She  was  dressed  for  one  of  the 
numberless  dancing  parties  the  Irish  girls  and  lads  are 
forever  getting  up.  Shane  was  to  have  taken  her.  She 
had  wondered  at  his  non-appearance.  Delia  was  too 
weak  to  give  her  what  she  gave  Michael,  but  she  did  her 
best  in  her  weak  woman's  way. 

80 


SENT   FOR   OUT 

Judy  had  a  mother  who  was  gifted  at  hysterics  and 
Judy  was  trained  to  marvels  of  patience  in  trying  to  sell 
dresses  to  impossible  women. 

It  was  a  hard  blow  to  her  to  learn  that  Shane  had 
cherished  a  sweetheart  all  the  while  he  was  philandering 
with  her.  She  had  taken  a  deep  interest  in  him  and  she 
thought  that  it  was  love.  It  might  well  have  been,  but 
Moyna  had  come  in  time  to  nip  it,  if  not  in  the  bud,  at 
least  before  it  bloomed  to  the  full. 

Shane  was  so  unpopular  here  that  Judy  did  not  need  to 
add  her  own  grievances  against  him.  Her  tears  for  her 
self  sank  back  into  her  heart.  She  was  there  when 
Policeman  Myles  himself  brought  in  Moyna,  treating 
her  with  a  mock  severity  that  shattered  her  overspent 
temper  and  her  overtired  strength. 

Delia  and  Kate  launched  themselves  upon  her  with 
kisses  of  frantic  welcome  that  made  them  infinitely  dear 
to  her  in  her  need.  And  Judy  saw  her  so  lonely,  so  hurt, 
so  pitiful,  that  she  almost  forgave  her  for  having  seen 
Shane  first.  Myles  explained  in  his  gruffest  tones,  while 
he  winked  across  Moyna's  shoulder: 

"The  cops  found  her  out  in  Bronnix  Park,  askin'  how 
much  furtherer  was  it  to  Chicago,  so  they  took  her  up  for 
a  suspicious  character.  I  used  me  infloonce  and  got  her 
off  on  parole  during  good  behavior.  She  was  all  for  not 
comin'  with  me,  but  I  arrested  her  for  resistin'  the  police 
and  brought  her  down  on  the  subway.  I  stopped  in  here 
to  see  could  pa  stand  bail  for  her  and  would  he.  Of  course, 
it's  a  serious  charge  they  got  against  her,  wanderin'  in 
Bronnix  Park  without  a  license;  but  maybe  if  she  prom 
ised  to  make  no  more  trouble  and  if  Shane  was  to  forgive 
her  and  she'd  promise  to  take  shelter  under  his  wing  as  his 
wife,  I  might  get  a  suspension  of  sentence.  I  say  I  might." 

Moyna  had  carried  all  the  freight  of  woe  and  fear  and 

81 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

loneliness  she  could  bear.    She  was  as  unresisting  as  a 
broken,  bruised,  and  hobbled  mustang. 

She  had  no  strength  to  flare  up  even  against  Judy,  who 
took  the  same  key,  and  upbraided  her  for  her  stupidity 
and  her  treachery  in  misunderstanding  harmless  words 
and  doubting  the  faith  of  the  faithful  Shane.  But  Judy 
had  too  much  pride  to  explain  how  it  was  on  account  of 
the  strength  of  her  father's  weakness  that  the  whole 
trouble  arose.  Trying  to  conceal  that,  she  only  confused 
herself  and  confirmed  Moyna's  despair. 

Then  Judy  went  to  her  own  disordered  home  and  cried 
all  over  her  party  dress,  took  herself  out  of  her  finery, 
and  crept  into  her  bed.  The  alarm-clock  found  her  still 
awake,  but  she  dragged  herself  to  early  Mass  and  thanked 
Heaven  for  having  a  shop  to  go  to,  and  begged  for  blessings 
on  the  handsome  head  of  Shane  O'Mealia. 

But  long  hours  before  this  Michael  had  come  home, 
bringing  in  the  exhausted  Shane,  whom  he  had  found  half 
fainting  on  the  street. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  at  the  front  door  Moyna 
darted  into  the  bedroom  that  had  been  assigned  to  her. 

When  Delia  revived  Shane  with  the  miraculous  news 
that  the  lost  ewe-lamb  was  "within  in  there,"  Shane 
ran  to  the  door  and  turned  the  knob.  But  he  almost  broke 
his  excellent  nose,  for  the  door  was  locked. 

He  remodeled  his  nose  with  one  hand  while  he  rattled 
the  knob  pleadingly  with  the  other.  And  he  thrilled  the 
panels  with  his  prayers  for  mercy.  He  had  back  only 
the  heartbreaking  sound  of  Moyna's  sobs  for  a  long 
while,  then  a  more  hurtful  silence,  and  after  that  grim 
advice  in  her  deepest  tones: 

"Don't  be  wastin'  your  time  on  such  as  me.  You're 
keepin'  your  grand  lady  from  the  party,  and  you've  the 
priest  to  see  to-morra." 

82 


SENT    FOR   OUT 

"Och,  Moyna,"  Shane  implored,  "quit  out  of  that  and 
come  back  to  me  arrums,  or  the  only  party  will  be  the 
funeral  of  the  one  that  loves  you." 

Moyna's  voice  faltered  a  little,  but  she  answered,  bitterly : 

"It's  sorry  I'll  be  not  to  be  there,  but  I'll  be  goin'  back 
across  the  ocean  the  mornin'." 

"Ah,  Moyna  dairlin',  sure  the  ocean  itself  is  no  thicker 
than  this  dure  bechune  us,  and  I'll  dhrown  meself  in  the 
say  if  you  tahk  of  sailin'." 

Moyna  laughed  back:  "You've  shwum  for  three  years 
now,  and  Madamselle  Dugan  will  hold  up  your  head  for 
you.  She  shwims  grand,  too." 

Michael  tiptoed  up  to  the  distracted  wooer  and  whis 
pered  : 

"Try  a  bit  of  foorce;  it's  that  that  the  women  love." 

Shane  assumed  his  fiercest  tone : 

"Moyna,  if  you  do  not  open  this  dure  this  mortial 
minyute,  I'll  break  it  through." 

" Do !"  said  Moyna.  "And  the  instiant  you  coom  in  at 
the  dure  I  go  out  at  the  windy." 

Michael  heard  this  and  it  stumped  him.  He  thought 
awhile,  then  he  motioned  Shane  to  a  distance  and  held 
counsel  with  him.  Shane  yielded  at  length  and  went  to 
the  door  again  to  call: 

"Good-by,  Moyna,  and  may  the  saints  have  softer 
hearts  than  you  have.  Good-by-y." 

Then  he  gathered  up  his  boxes  and  went  sadly  away, 
loaded  with  bundles  and  woes  like  an  inconsolable  ex 
pressman. 

There  was  silence  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  but  the 
anxious  watchers  could  vividly  imagine  the  dismay  that 
was  there.  Delia  knocked  and  told  Moyna  that  Shane 
was  gone,  and  begged  her  to  come  on  in  out  of  the  cold 
in  there ;  but  Moyna  answered : 
7  83 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  but  it's  not  fit  I  am  to  be  seen,  and 
would  you  lind  me  the  use  of  the  room  till  the  next  boat 
back?  I'll  pesther  you  no  more." 

So  they  left  her  to  her  gloom  and  sat  down  like  doleful 
besiegers  of  an  impregnable  citadel.  There  they  were 
when  the  telephone  bell  rang.  Michael  answered  it.  It 
was  his  son,  the  priest. 

"Is  Shane  there?"  Father  Dermot  asked. 

"He  is  not,  Father,"  said  Michael. 

"Then,  father,  would  you  get  word  to  him  for  me?  He 
and  Judy  were  bringing  Judy's  father  here  to  sign  the 
pledge  before  me  to-morrow  noon,  and  I  find  I  have  a  call 
out  at  that  hour;  so  ask  him,  will  you,  would  they  come 
at  eleven  or  at  two?  Either  hour  suits  me  and  I'll  have 
the  pledge  already  written  out  in  words  would  turn 
Gambrinus  into  a  prohibitionist." 

"I'll  tell  him,  my  son — er,  Father — and  thank  you  more 
than  you  know,"  Michael  shouted,  "and  good-by  to  you, 
me  boy — your  Riverence!" 

Father  Dermot,  whom  Shane  had  not  warned  to  se 
crecy,  had  unwittingly  dissolved  the  mystery  that  Judy's 
pride  and  Shane's  oath  had  erected  between  Moyna  and 
her  happiness. 

Michael  was  on  fire  with  joy.  He  almost  blistered  the 
door  with  the  fervor  of  his  language  as  he  passed  the 
explanation  in  to  Moyna.  It  brought  her  forth  at  last  in 
a  completely  altered  mood  of  contrition.  It  was  she  now 
that  had  done  wrong  and  dealt  harshly,  and  it  was  Shane 
that  had  been  noble  beyond  belief. 

Moyna  felt  undeserving  entirely  now,  and  there  was  no 
need  of  the  uniform  Shane  walked  in  in  a  little  later. 
But  it  helped  to  complete  the  collapse  of  Moyna's  re 
sistance. 

Shane  was  not  prepared  at  all,  however,  for  the  en- 

84 


SENT   FOR   OUT 

thusiasm  of  her  surrender.  And  when  she  charged  on  him, 
crying,  "Oh,  Shane,  my  Shaneen  beug,  forgive  me,  forgive 
me !"  he  was  so  taken  aback  that  his  elbow  knocked  against 
the  hilt  of  his  unaccustomed  sword  and  sent  the  scabbard 
between  his  legs,  and  he  would  have  gone  sprawling  if  she 
had  not  upheld  him  in  her  strong  arms. 

He  was  about  to  resume  his  attitude  of  groveling  re 
pentance,  but  he  caught  sight  of  Michael  making  terrible 
faces  of  stern  suggestion,  and  he  understood.  He  made 
some  difficulty  about  pardoning  his  prodigal  sweetheart, 
but  at  length  he  gathered  her  into  his  arms  with  a  lofty 
condescension  that  made  her  feel  small,  and  weak,  and 
unworthy  of  his  grandeur,  and  utterly  dependent  on  his 
strength  of  character. 

Which  was  the  way  she  wanted  to  feel. 


IV 

EXCEPT  HE  WERE  A  BIRD 

young  Irishmen  when  they  leave  Erin  for  a 
better  world  join  the  heavenly  choir  of  New  Jeru 
salem  after  due  probation.  All  sorts  of  young  Irishmen, 
when  they  left  Ireland  for  the  next  best  place,  joined  the 
Sixty-ninth  Regiment  of  New  York. 

That  was  one  of  the  first  things  young  Shane  O'Mealia 
did  when  he  came  out  to  the  States,  and  his  first  letter 
back  to  Moyna  Killilea  had  been  full  of  the  glory  of  his 
acceptance  into  the  famous  organization.  He  spent  most 
of  his  leisure  at  the  home  of  his  uncle,  Michael  Morahan, 
and  it  had  been  a  brave  day  when  he  had  arrived  there 
with  golden  news,  and  cried: 

"Aunt  Dalia  dear,  I've  been  thransferred  from  private 
in  Coompany  Ah  to  sairgeant  in  Coompany  Haitch!" 

He  had  written  that  home  to  Moyna,  too,  and  it  was 
the  one  bright  chapter  in  his  long  chronicle  of  losing  jobs 
and  postponing  the  blessed  day  when  he  could  send  for 
her  to  come  across  the  long  water  and  marry  him. 

The  week  that  brought  him  his  commission  to  the 
Second-Lieutenancy  of  Company  N,  Captain  Kerin  com 
manding,  brought  Moyna  Killilea  to  America  most  unex 
pectedly.  She  could  not  resist  the  bravery  of  his  uniform, 
and  she  consented  to  restore  him  to  her  idolatry.  She 
agreed  that  the  banns  should  be  called  the  following 
Sunday. 

86 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE    A    BIRD 

But  it  looked  as  if  the  Old  Black  Boy  was  in  it.  Before 
the  priest  could  "ask  out"  the  couple  the  first  time  the 
devil  sailed  away  with  Shane's  next  job.  The  banns  were 
recalled.  In  good  time  Shane  found  a  new  position — in 
a  stove-store,  no  less,  and  the  wedding  preparations  were 
resumed. 

Shane's  modesty  prevented  him  from  boasting  to  his 
new  boss  that  he  had  the  honor  of  employing  a  second 
lieutenant  in  the  Sixty-ninth,  N.  G.,  N.  Y.  Shane  de 
cided  to  save  that  gorgeous  surprise  till  the  man  was  ready 
for  it.  He  was  a  foreigner,  anyway,  and  would  have  to 
be  educated  up  to  the  meaning  of  the  Sixty-ninth  in 
the  history  of  the  nation,  the  achievements  of  its  child, 
the  Irish  Brigade,  in  the  Civil  War,  and  other  matters  that 
have  given  the  regiment  a  place  all  its  own. 

The  stove  merchant  was  born  in  America,  but  he  was  as 
foreign  as  only  a  man  of  Norwegian  descent  could  seem 
to  an  Irishman.  His  impossible  name  was  Bjerring — 
"Old  Bejabers,"  Shane  called  him — at  first — but  stronger 
names  later.  O.  O.  Bjerring  sold  stoves  of  all  sorts, 
furnaces  of  all  sorts,  radiators,  gas  logs,  ice-boxes — every 
thing  relating  to  heat. 

But  the  emotional,  impulsive  Shane  found  Mr.  Bjerring 
even  colder  than  employees  are  apt  to  find  employers. 
Shane  described  him  to  Moyna:  "For  all  his  stoves,  that 
Scandihoovian  cannot  get  the  warrumth  of  a  fish  into  his 
soul.  He  has  a  snowball  for  a  heart  and  ice-wather  on  tap 
in  his  veins.  Troth  and  he  was  born  with  an  icicle  on  the 
ind  of  his  nose." 

Shane  put  off  telling  him  about  his  commission  in  the 
hope  that  the  spring  would  thaw  him  out,  but  long 
before  that  Mr.  Bjerring  broached  the  subject  himself: 

"By  the  way,  O'Meely,"  he  said  one  day,  "take  a  tip 
from  me.  Seeing  that  you're  Irish,  they'll  soon  be  after 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

you  to  join  the  Ninety-sixth,  or  whatever  it  is.  But  don't 
you  do  it.  This  militia  business  is  all  wrong.  It's  a 
waste  of  time.  Nobody  but  a  fool  would  waste  it.  Be 
sides,  I  don't  believe  in  this  militaryism.  I  fired  a  man 
last  year  who  had  to  go  away  for  a  week  to  camp.  His 
night  work,  too,  was  always  being  interrupted  by  the 
drills.  I  simply  won't  stand  for  it.  And  I  want  you 
should  promise  me  you  won't  go  and  join." 

The  startled  Shane  promised  that  he  would  not  go  and 
join.  He  was  not  asked  if  he  had  already  gone  and  joined. 
But  now  his  plight  was  a  trilemma;  how  was  he  to  keep 
his  job,  his  military  career,  and  his  wife?  How  could  he 
live  without  e'er-a-one  of  them?  He  resolved  to  cling 
to  them  all  as  long  as  he  coixld.  He  would  not  let  his  job 
know  of  his  military  career.  He  would  keep  his  fame  a 
secret,  and  cast  about  meanwhile  for  another  job. 

There  was  one  comfortable  fact:  his  sweetheart  was 
not  at  war  with  his  regiment.  His  uniform  had  been  his 
best  argument  with  her,  and  when  she  saw  him  drilling 
his  men  she  was  fairly  destroyed  with  admiration. 

That  was  a  wonderful  night  when  first  Moyna  came 
down  to  the  armory  and  watched  his  work.  The  Mora- 
hans,  Michael  and  Delia,  and  their  daughter  Kate,  were 
invited  along,  of  course.  Shane  took  care  not  to  invite 
the  sons  of  the  family:  they  had  enough  fun  to  poke  at 
him  without  added  ammunition. 

Moyna  and  the  Morahans  arrived  in  time  to  look  over 
the  armory  before  the  assembly  bugle.  Moyna  was 
tremendously  impressed  with  the  building,  especially  the 
magnificent  furniture  in  the  officers'  room  and  with  the  way 
everybody  saluted  Shane.  Only  two  companies  were 
drilling  that  night,  but  Moyna  thought  the  armies  of  the 
world  were  gathering. 

With  duplex  pride  Shane  introduced  the  officers  to  her. 

88 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE   A    BIRD 

It  was  not  difficult  for  soldiers  to  be  courteous  to  a  beauty 
like  Moyna,  but  she  was  fluttered  by  their  civilities. 

"Ivery  mortial  wan  of  thim,"  she  exclaimed,  "is  politer 
than  the  rist  of  them.  And  they're  not  ferocious  what- 
iver,  for  ahl  they're  such  brave  min.  And  they're  hand 
some  lads,  too;  but  none  of  thim's  as  pretty  as  my 
Shaneen." 

"Wait  till  you've  seen  Lieutinant  McCooey,"  said 
Shane.  "It's  only  fair  to  inthroduce  him  to  you,  for 
we  come  out  in  the  same  boat  and  we  wint  before  the 
Examining  Boord  the  same  ahful  night,  and  we  both 
scraped  through  by  the  same  narrow  mairgin.  But  he's 
a  grand  looker  and  no  mistake.  I  doubt  I'll  hold  you 
for  mine  once  you've  laid  your  two  eyes  on  him.  Where 
is  he  now,  I  don't  know.  There  he  is — on  the  stairs. 
Oh,  McCooey!— Oh,  Lieutinant  McCooey!" 

Moyna  saw  a  uniformed  officer  trudging  up  the  stairs 
and  she  braced  herself  for  a  shock  of  beauty.  But  she 
told  herself  that,  were  the  man  Apollo  himself,  she  must 
remember  that  Shaneen  had  her  heart. 

When  Lieutenant  McCooey  turned,  Moyna  staggered 
in  spite  of  herself.  He  was  ugly  to  a  magnificent  extent. 
He  was  ugly  enough  to  be  handsome  and  on  past  that  to 
being  ugly  all  over  again. 

"The  saints  gather  round  us,"  Moyna  said,  as  he  came 
down  the  stairs,  "is  it  a  baboon  you  have  dressed  up  for 
a  mascot?  Och,  wirra  wirra,  how  his  face  must  hurt  him 
at  night  when  he's  alone  wid  it." 

"He's  the  best-hearted  man  in  the  world,"  Shane 
mumbled. 

"Why  wouldn't  he  be  with  the  moog  he  has  on  him?" 
Moyna  groaned.  "Were  he  a  saint,  he  has  his  martyrdom 
under  his  hat!" 

By  the  time  McCooey  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

stairs  Moyna  had  subdued  her  features,  and  she  greeted 
him  with  the  full  candle-power  of  her  enthusiasm. 
McCooey  was  infatuated  at  once,  and  his  smile  was  not 
so  bad  as  his  serious  expression.  And  he  delighted  Moyna 
by  telling  her  that  Shane  was  the  pride  of  the  regiment. 

When  he  moved  away  Shane  spoke  gently:  "He  has 
ahlways  the  kind  word  for  iverybody." 

* '  And  smahl  wondher ! ' '  said  Moyna.  ' '  Whin  he  was  at 
Blarney  Castle  he  might  have  bit  a  piece  out  with  that 
jah  he  borried  off  a  gorilly.  His  poor  mother  must  have 
lived  ferninst  the  Zoo-ological  Gairdens." 

Shane  tried  to  be  loyal  to  McCooey:  "You  oughtn't 
to  miscall  him,  seein'  he  came  out  on  the  same  boat  with 
me." 

But  Moyna  only  smiled:  "Ahl  Ireland's  the  betther- 
lookin'  for  his  absince." 

"He'd  do  annything  on  earth  for  a  fri'nd." 

"Can't  he  do  annything  on  earth  for  himself?" 

Shane  gave  up  the  effort  to  win  a  word  of  praise  from 
Moyna  for  McCooey,  and  asked  only  one  favor: 

"If  you  see  him  afther  the  drill,  don't  fail  to  remimber 
his  name — McCooey;  and  he's  a  lieutinant." 

"If  I  see  him  after  the  drill  it  '11  be  because  I  can't 
bate  him  to  the  dure,"  said  Moyna.  "But  have  no  fear 
of  me  forgettin'  his  name.  While  there's  sinse  and 
mimmory  in  me  I'll  joomp  at  the  name  McCooey." 

Then  the  bugle  blew  all  social  thoughts  away  and  the 
visitors  scurried  up  to  the  gallery  to  watch  the  entertain 
ment.  As  Moyna  gazed  about  the  expanse  of  glistening 
floor  under  the  vast  arch  of  the  glass  roof,  she  was  lost  in 
awe  and  cried: 

"Ah,  the  grand  railway  station  'twould  make  were  there 
but  thracks  in  it." 

Moyna  soon  picked  out  Shane's  company.  McCooey 

90 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE   A   BIRD 

was  with  the  other.  She  was  disappointed  to  note  that 
Shane's  post  was  in  the  rear  of  the  rear  rank.  The  captain 
gave  the  stentorian  commands  and  Shane  merely  mumbled 
and  prodded  the  inaccurate  and  indolent. 

Moyna  turned  to  Michael  for  information: 

"For  why  would  he  be  an  officer  and  he  workin'  there 
in  the  back  yaird  all  the  time?" 

Michael  winked  at  Delia  and  answered: 

"That's  the  place  he  holds.  Out  in  the  field  of  battle 
he  would  be  carryin'  the  wather  to  the  min  and  tidyin* 
up  the  tints." 

Moyna  believed  him  and  her  pride  collapsed. 

"Och,  blathers,  and  that's  a  fine  job!  It's  a  chamber 
maid  he  is,  then.  And  he  tellin'  me  he  was  a  leftinant." 

But  after  a  time  Captain  Kerin,  catching  sight  of  the 
squad  of  spectators  aloft  and  realizing  that  it  was  Shane 
they  came  to  see,  was  gracious  enough  to  call  Shane  for 
ward  to  take  command  while  he  joined  First-Lieutenant 
Cavanaugh  in  the  line  of  file-closers  and  took  his  orders 
from  his  subordinate. 

Seeing  this  alteration  of  estates,  Moyna  was  tremen 
dously  excited.  She  clutched  Michael's  arm: 

"  He's  promoted  already !  Or  is  it  a  mutiny  he  started? 
Sure  would  yous  look  at  the  captain  and  lootinant  slinkin' 
along  behind  with  the  sthragglers  and  takin'  orthers  from 
my  Shane.  Lave  thim  to  workin'  the  mop  and  makin' 
the  beds.  Shane  is  king  now.  I  tell  you  people  comes 
into  their  own  in  time." 

Shane  was  making  a  brave  show,  but  he  was  more  afraid 
of  the  company  back  of  him  than  of  anything  on  earth 
except  the  little  crowd  in  the  gallery. 

Shane  was  so  terrified,  so  mixed,  that  Michael  groaned 
to  Delia: 

"The  poor  stokawn  doesn't  know  bay  from  a  bull's  fut." 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

He  gave  two  or  three  impossible  commands  such  as 
"Right  front  into  line"  when  they  were  already  in  line 
and  " Column  right"  when  it  led  his  column  into  the  wall. 
In  extricating  them  from  one  tangle  he  got  into  a  worse. 
He  got  them  so  tied  up  that  they  stopped  fast  like  cigar 
Indians  while  he  tried  to  evolve  them  from  their  difficulty; 
but  he  had  at  length  to  give  the  hopeless  command: 

"Fahl  out  and  fahl  in  again." 

Moyna,  noting  how  befuddled  the  men  were,  protested : 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  the  lunkheads  they  are? 
I  wonder  Shane  is  that  patient  with  them." 

The  captain  and  the  first  lieutenant  were  smiling;  in 
their  day  they  had  also  known  the  drill-fright  of  playing 
with  toy  soldiers  that  know  a  thing  or  two  themselves 
and  have  the  dreadful  gift  of  laughter.  The  men  were 
tormented  with  amusement  at  the  mixed  commands,  for 
a  misplaced  word  almost  always  proves  irresistible  to  the 
human  sense  of  humor.  A  man  slipping  and  falling  on  the 
ice  is  no  funnier  than  a  word  bumping  unexpectedly  into 
another.  But  the  men  all  tried  to  keep  from  laughing 
aloud,  since  they  knew  who  was  in  the  balcony.  And  so 
they  marched  about,  tight-lipped  and  shivering,  till 
Moyna  noticed  it  and  asked  Michael : 

"See  the  poor  things  shake.  Is  it  that  Shane  has  scared 
them  into  a  palsy,  or  is  it  a  chill's  on  them?  I  doubt 
there's  a  powerful  dhraught  on  the  flure." 

Michael  was  merciful,  and  doubted  there  was,  too. 

When  the  miserably  embarrassed  Shane  had  aligned 
his  men  once  more  he  thought  he  would  put  them  through 
the  manual  of  arms  to  steady  them  and  himself.  He 
tried  to  make  up  in  severity  what  he  lacked  in  security  and 
with  a  voice  positively  blood-curdling  he  shouted: 

"Prre-sint  HAIRRUMS!" 

It  was  a  very  excellent  presentation:  the  pieces  went 

92 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE   A    BIRD 

into  position  with  a  snap  and  the  company  froze  into  a 
Noah's  ark. 

Now  Shane  roared,  "Ardor — hairrums!"  and  the  mus 
kets  came  down  to  the  order  in  grim  precision.  And  then 
success  betrayed  him  and  from  his  astonished  lungs  came 
the  thunderous  absurdity: 

"Right  shoulther— bay-nits!" 

The  company  wavered  and  rocked  as  if  a  shell  had 
exploded  at  its  feet.  The  command  was  unheard  of  and 
impossible,  and  if  that  were  not  a  double  reason  for 
laughter,  there  was  no  resisting  the  look  on  Shane's  face 
when  he  heard  his  own  voice  rollicking  round  the  armory 
like  a  sarcastic  echo.  Years  later  he  would  be  known  as 
"Old  Right  Shoulder  Bay'nits." 

Moyna  saw  nothing  funny  in  Shane's  command;  she 
was  merely  dazed  at  the  result.  Solemnity  was  gone, 
rigidity  was  broken  into  flitterjigs.  The  men  leaned  on 
one  another  and  whooped.  Captain  Kerin  fell  against  his 
first  sergeant  and  Lieutenant  Cavanaugh  slapped  the  right 
guide  on  the  back. 

The  other  company,  standing  at  ease  at  the  time,  heard 
the  command,  and  laughter  ran  along  it  in  a  seismic 
billow.  Everybody  laughed  but  dear  old  McCooey.  He 
was  too  kind-hearted  not  to  feel  Shane's  desperate  dismay. 

Moyna  still  could  not  understand.  Then  a  light  struck 
her  and  she  smiled: 

"Oh,  I  see.  Shane's  humorin'  them  the  way  they'll 
feel  aisier." 

"That's  it!"  whooped  Michael,  who  was  an  old  Sixty- 
ninther  and  was  shrieking  with  the  rest.  "You  have  it! 
He's  humorin'  thim!" 

Now  Moyna  laughed  as  hard  as  any,  her  eyes  glistening 
with  pride  as  she  chuckled : 

"He's  a  witty  lad,  my  Shane.  He  can  make  a  rigi- 

93 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

mint  laugh — and  hould  his  own  face  as  straight  as  a 
funeral!" 

"Thrue  for  you,  Moyna!"  Michael  roared.  "He's 
witty;  you  have  the  thruth  of  it  there!" 

"But  what  makes  him  so  red?  His  face  is  red  to  the 
back  of  his  neck." 

Again  Michael  was  merciful.  He  would  not  diminish 
Shane's  prestige  in  Moyna's  eyes.  So  he  sobered  down 
and  muttered:  "You're  under  young  to  know.  No 
doubt  Shane  11  tell  you  after  you're  married." 

Then  Moyna  turned  red.  And  she  and  her  Shane  were 
blushing  in  mystic  kinship. 

Disabled  with  disgust,  Shane  saluted  the  captain  with 
his  sword  and  the  captain  came  reluctantly  from  the  con 
cealment  of  his  men  and,  returning  Shane's  salute  with  a 
sweeping  blade,  took  command  of  the  company,  while 
Shane  prowled  off  to  the  rear. 

"He's  givin'  the  captain  another  chance,"  said  Moyna, 
"afther  showin'  him  how  it's  to  be  done." 

Michael  said  to  Delia:  "That  gerl  is  a  wondher  at 
graspin'  milith'ry  matthers.  It  bates  all." 

Captain  Kerin  tried  to  scare  himself  and  the  men  into 
dignity  by  a  wolfish  snarl: 

"At-/w-SHAN!  Far-wurd-haow!  Gui-drigh-tt !  Squads 
ri'! — Col-yume  ri'! — haow!  Double  time — haow!" 

He  dog-trotted  them  round  and  round  the  armory  at  the 
double  till  they  were  almost  dropping.  He  jogged  along 
side,  muttering: 

"I'll  sweat  the  snickers  out  of  you!    Close  up  there!" 

At  the  far  end  of  the  armory  he  brought  the  straggling 
column  on  left  into  line,  then  opened  them  out  into  squads 
and  then  spread  them  clear  across  the  floor  in  the  thin 
line  of  skirmishers. 

He  moved  them  in  extended  order  to  the  attack  with 

94 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE   A    BIRD 

frequent  rushes  and  loadings  and  firings,  kneeling  and 
prone.  And  now  the  guffaws  of  ridicule  were  forgotten 
in  the  immemorial  still  laughter  of  the  lust  of  combat 
in  the  supreme  gymnasium  of  war. 

Michael  Morahan  was  breathing  hard,  though  he  smiled 
when  he  mumbled: 

"It's  a  grand  thing  watchin*  a  battle  from  a  balcony, 
and  seein'  the  fearless  lads  shootin'  imaginary  inimies  full 
of  imaginary  catthridges." 

Shane  got  a  chance  in  the  fire  by  platoon,  but  he  was 
lost  as  the  control  of  fire  passed  to  the  corporals  wriggling 
on  their  bellies  and  giving  the  ranges,  as  if  the  wall  a  dozen 
yards  away  were  a  line  of  trenches  soon  to  be  stormed  for 
the  sake  of  the  nation's  all-important  life.  It  was  childish 
in  a  way,  the  pretense  of  earnestness,  the  valorous  abandon 
to  the  nursery  make-believe;  yet  these  men  would  go  into 
shrapnel  rain  and  bullet  sleet  with  just  the  same  exultant 
childishness  for  a  cause  perhaps  as  nursery-like,  though 
the  cannon  whiffed  them  to  shreds  or  the  bayonets 
ripped  them  open.  Only  then  their  women-folk  would 
not  have  them  all  back  when  the  drill  was  over  and  the 
diplomats  signaled  "Dismissed." 

So  keen  was  the  delight  of  the  soldiers  in  their  trade 
that  when  the  captain  made  ready  for  the  charge  and 
called,  "Fix  bay 'nets!"  no  laughter  blurted  at  the  fatal 
word.  The  knives  rattled  into  their  locks  and  at  the  wild 
command  the  line  sprang  up  and  came  roaring  forward 
with  all  steel  glinting,  and  every  face  aflash  with  joy. 

While  man  is  man  such  things  will  thrill,  and  Moyna 
stood  up  and  cheered.  Michael  yelped,  and  when  they 
halted  with  their  valiant  officers  on  the  captured  line  he 
moralized : 

"By  cripes,  but  thim  boys  is  the  boys!  Sure  and  if  it 
had  to  be  I  wint  to  war,  I'd  rather  go  with  Irish  than  with 

95 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

army  other,  for  I'd  be  safer;  and  I'd  rather  go  ag'in*  army 
other  or  ahl  the  other  than  ag'in'  the  Irish,  for  I'd  be  in 
more  danger.  Us  Hibernians  has  a  kind  of  peculiar 
appetite  for  throuble.  We're  the  on'y  people  I  know  of 
that  begins  to  grin  at  the  mintion  of  a  shindy.  Others 
fights  hard  and  they're  solemn  or  sad  or  desprut  or  con- 
timpchous,  as  may  be,  but  the  Irishman  laughs.  He's  the 
laughin'est  fighter  was  ever  in  the  worruld.  If  they 
can't  get  foreigners  to  fight,  they'll  fight  among  themselves 
for  the  pure  love  of  the  art  of  it." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Moyna,  "I'm  glad  there's  no 
danger  here." 

"  Danger  is  it!"  Michael  protested.  " Av  coorse  there's 
.danger,  in  full  and  plinty.  When  it  comes  to  chairgin' 
acrost  that  shiny  flure,  who  knows  what  moment  his 
fut  '11  shlip  and  he  come  down  on  the  inimy  on  the  broad 
of  his  back  ?  I  done  that  once  whin  I  was  first  promoted 
from  high  private  to  lance  corpor'l,  for  gallanthry  in  the 
field  of  refreshments.  And  I  got  a  lumbago  I'd  'a'  had 
a  pinsion  for  it  if  the  Repooblicans  hadn't  happened  on 
an  eliction.  Sure  it's  dangerous." 

"Thin  I  don't  want  Shane  dhrillin',"  said  Moyna. 
"And  he  can  quit  out  of  this." 

Michael  shifted  promptly:  "Ach,  Moyna  agra,  did  you 
lave  your  sinse  of  yumor  at  home  with  your  umbrelly? 
There's  no  danger  at  all.  I'm  on'y  tahkin'  to  keep  you 
from  bein'  bored  by  the  tameness  of  it." 

When  the  drill  at  length  was  over  and  the  companies 
dismissed  to  their  company-rooms  and  thence  to  their 
own  clothes  and  homes,  Shane  was  reluctant  to  face  Moyna 
at  all  after  his  disgraceful  slip  of  the  tongue.  But 
Michael  seized  the  chance  to  reach  him  first  and  explain 
hastily  that  Moyna  had  taken  his  misfortune  for  genius, 
and  Shane  was  wise  enough  to  accept  her  congratulations 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE    A    BIRD 

with  the  modest  grace  of  one  who  knows  he  is  very  good, 
but  prefers  not  to  admit  it. 

And  then  dear  old  McCooey  came  along,  caught  them 
at  the  big  door  of  the  armory,  and  with  the  noblest  inten 
tions  in  the  world  proceeded  to  slaughter  Moyna's  com 
fortable  illusions: 

"Miss  Killilea,  I'm  glad  to  have  met  you,  and  I've  told 
me  old  friend  Shane  here  he  was  a  good  selecter,  for  of  all 
the  ladies  I've  seen  him  makin'  up  to,  the  one  he's  finally 
decided  to  marry  is  the  jim  of  the  boonch." 

"I  thank  you  kindly!  Good  evening  kindly,"  said 
Moyna,  turning  aside  and  muttering  to  Michael,  "Take 
him  away  before  I  murther  him." 

But  McCooey's  generosity  was  not  exhausted.  He 
followed  along  to  add : 

"And  don't  take  it  to  heart  about  Shane's  blundher 
to-night." 

"Shane's  blundher?"  Moyna  echoed. 

"Yis,  the  unfortunate  break  about  right  shoulther 
bay 'nits.  The  best  of  soldiers  makes  the  moonkeys  of 
themselves  at  first.  But  he'll  get  over  it." 

"Yis,  Shane'll  git  over  bein'  a  moonkey,"  Moyna  groaned 
between  her  clenched  teeth,  "but  there's  others  never 
will." 

And  she  swept  away,  leaving  McCooey  blissfully  un 
conscious  that  he  had  been  annihilated.  Moyna  was  so 
wroth  at  him  that  she  forgot  to  question  Shane  about  that 
list  of  girls  he  had  made  up  to  before  he  found  the  Jim 
of  the  Boonch. 

Moyna  went  to  other  drills  and  Shane  was  luckier. 
He  prospered  at  the  armory  and  at  the  stovery  and  at  the 
love-game.  The  wedding  date  was  set,  and  he  and 
Moyna  selected  an  apartment  that  was  just  a  trifle  more 
expensive  than  they  could  afford,  and  Shane  gave  a 

97 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

mortgage  on  his  soul  to  an  instalment  furniture  palace. 
And  then  the  fairies  that  Shane  had  somehow  offended 
began  to  sit  up  daytimes  and  form  battalions  to  destroy 
him.  Hosts  of  them  fell  on  him  right,  left,  and  center,  and 
attacked  him  at  his  job,  at  his  post,  and  at  his  heart. 

First  came  the  boss,  Mr.  Bjerring.  Shane  broached 
the  subject  of  a  few  days'  furlough  from  the  office  for  the 
sake  of  his  honeymoon. 

Bjerring  drew  a  long  face.  "I  don't  believe  in  men 
marryin'  so  young,"  he  growled.  "Why  not  wait  a  few 
years?  What  you  want  to  get  married  for,  anyhow? 
Take  my  advice  and  not.  Why,  only  last  year  I  had  to 
fire  a  man  because  he  got  married  and  his  wife  got  sick — 
right  in  my  busy  season,  too — and  what  you  think  he 
wanted? — to  draw  his  wages  in  advance!  Honest!" 

Shane  gently  explained  that  all  arrangements  had  been 
made  for  his  wedding  and  he  would  tell  his  wife  that  if 
she  got  sick  it  must  be  in  the  late  summer,  when  stoves 
are  not  so  lively  and  ice-boxes  have  quieted  down. 
Bjerring  grumbled: 

"Well,  I'll  let  you  off  a  few  days  for  the  honeymoon, 
but  you  got  to  work  nights  to  make  it  up.  I'm  just 
goin'  to  begin  stock-takin'  and  things  are  in  a  hell  of  a 
mess,  because  the  bookkeeper  gave  me  some  lip  yester 
day  and  I  fired  him  to-day.  You  make  your  arrange 
ments  to  spend  three  evenings  a  week  here  for  the  next 
few  weeks,  and  after  that  I'll  let  you  off  half  a  week  to 
get  your  eyes  open.  But  of  course  I'll  have  to  dock  your 
pay.  You  wouldn't  expect  to  be  paid  for  gallivantin' 
round  the  country,  would  you?" 

Shane  shook  his  head  and  said  Mr.  Bjerring  was  very 
ginerous  to  lave  him  off  at  all.  But  he  wanted  to  bend 
a  stove-lid  over  the  villain's  crown.  And  when  he  broke 
the  news  to  Moyna  that  evening  he  said:  "It's  that  old 

98 


EXCEPT    HE    WERE   A    BIRD 

Bejabers  that  has  no  heart  in  him  whativer.  Would  you 
shtuff  him  in  a  red-hot  oven,  you  could  use  it  for  could 
could  sthorage  and  keep  eggs  in  it  ilegant." 

That  night  he  went  to  the  armory  on  his  way  to  the 
shop,  and  found  in  his  box  a  copy  of  a  new  order — General 
Order  No.  20 — from  regimental  headquarters,  announcing 
that  the  annual  inspection  was  shortly  to  take  place — 
the  yearly  Judgment  Day,  when  lockers  were  opened  and 
all  souls  aligned  for  condemnation. 

Shane  had  known  the  anguish  of  this  fierce  inquisition 
and  the  toil  of  preparing  for  it.  It  had  been  bad  when 
he  was  a  private ;  worse  when  he  was  a  sergeant ;  it  would 
be  a  persecution  to  him  as  an  officer. 

Every  man  jack  in  the  regiment  was  expected  to  be 
present,  dead  or  alive.  Every  shoestring,  puttee-strap, 
and  collar  device  was  expected  to  be  in  its  place  in  perfect 
condition.  And  Shane  knew  that  the  men  had  a  genius 
for  absenting  themselves  and  the  State  properties  intrusted 
to  them.  They  had  a  genius  for  making  mistakes  in 
sheer  terror  when  the  inspector  halted  in  front  of  them 
and  waited  for  them  to  port  arms  and  open  chamber. 
They  seemed  unable  to  let  go  the  rifle  when  the  inspector 
took  it  or  to  take  it  back  when  he  returned  it,  and  the  sight 
of  a  speck  of  grease  on  the  white-glove  finger  was  as  a 
sign  of  the  plague  to  them. 

So  it  was  like  perusing  his  death  warrant  when  he 
conned  the  fierce  paragraphs  of  the  order,  each  clause  in 
it  being  a  challenge  and  a  threat.  He  would  have  sworn 
that  Bjerring  wrote  it  himself  as  he  read: 

II.  The  several  subdivisions  will  parade  for  inspection  under 
arms  (except  Hospital  Corps  detachment)  without  ammunition 
or  rations,  in  service  uniform,  olive  drab,  dismounted,  with 
field  equipment,  including  first  aid  packets  and  pouches,  and 
intrenching  tools,  and  blanket-roll  "packs,"  U.  R.  Schedule 
8  99 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

A  and  C  for  officers  and  F  for  enlisted  men,  as  prescribed  in 
the  "Table  of  Occasions,"  pages  34,  35,  and  44,  and  the  Ap 
pendix  to  I.  D.  R.  1911,  in  so  far  as  they  apply  to  issued 
property. 

The  uniform  and  equipment  shall  be  worn  as  for  field  ser 
vice:  special  care  should  be  given  to  the  placing  and  adjust 
ment  of  equipment  for  uniformity  in  appearance  and  ease  in 
carriage. 

The  property  not  carried  on  the  person  shall  be  arranged 
in  an  orderly  manner  for  examination,  verification,  and  inspec 
tion  for  serviceability. 

Overcoats  and  identification  tags  will  be  examined  in  lockers 
or  storerooms. 

The  blanket-roll  "pack"  will  be  made  with  shelter-tent  half 
and  blanket-roll  strap,  and  shall  contain  blanket,  bed  sack, 
shelter-tent  pole  and  pins;  the  pouch  will  be  folded  lengthwise 
and  placed  on  the  outside  of  the  roll.  Tin  cup,  mess  kit  com 
plete,  and  field  kit  will  be  carried  within  the  haversack,  properly 
placed;  the  field  kit  will  contain  towel,  comb,  tooth-brush, 
housewife,  soap,  and  one  pair  of  stockings.  The  contents  of  the 
haversack  will  be  displayed  for  examination  and  verification 
when  the  blanket-roll  "packs"  are  opened  for  inspection. 
"Packs"  will  be  opened  and  property  worn  will  be  displayed  for 
examination  in  a  uniform  manner  and  according  to  the  rules 
prescribed  in  the  hereinbefore  mentioned  Appendix,  pages  i 
and  2,  with  the  authorized  modification. 

V.  Books  and  records,  including  financial  records,  property 
returns  with  required  inventories,  muster  rolls  in  duplicate, 
with  a  complete  resume  of  all  service  performed  since  the  previous 
muster,  to  show  compliance  with  the  law,  will  be  submitted 
for  examination. 

VII.  All  military  property  not  issued  to  the  men  and  including 
field  equipment,  tentage,  etc.,  will  be  displayed  and  arranged 
in  the  most  convenient  manner  for  thorough  examination  as  to 
condition,  serviceability,  and  for  verification  with  inventories, 
with  the  total  number  of  articles,  displayed  in  mass,  placed  on 
a  tag  or  suitable  card,  as  an  aid  to  verification.  Accountable 
officers  will  have  the  required  property  returns  and  other  papers 

100 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE    A    BIRD 

required  by  the  inspecting  officers  filled  out  and  ready  to  deliver 
before  the  property  is  examined.    \   \  ^  ;  ;  \  ; 

IX.  The  army  inspector  will  make  a  dayiighjb-  inspection  of 
property,  beginning  at  10.00  A.&,  j  .*  V.  ;.,  : '/  >» ;-%  ^:  •/-•, 

It  is  dry  reading,  doubtless,  to  the  civilian,  but  to  Shane 
every  line  was  surcharged  with  drama.  He  foresaw  what 
he  had  hindseen — the  amazing  number  of  things  that  could 
turn  up  missing,  the  blanket-roll  and  the  blankets,  the 
straps,  the  buckles,  buttons,  leggings,  tent  pegs,  tents, 
ponchos.  Private  McGahey  would  have  a  tin  cup  with 
a  hole  in  it  and  Private  McCorkle  none  at  all.  Private 
O'Leary  would  have  a  senile  comb,  but  no  tooth-brush, 
and  Private  Garrity  would  howl  that  somebody  had 
shwiped  his  unthershirt  off  him.  A  wail  would  go  up  for 
lost  "housewives"  whose  disappearance  nobody  could 
explain. 

He  knew  the  toil  of  tracing  mislaid  articles  and  the  dif 
ficulty  of  supplying  the  men  with  new  equipment  from  the 
stores  of  the  disgusted  regimental  quartermaster. 

And  then  the  labor  of  teaching  the  men  how  to  arrange 
their  belongings,  the  appalling  problem  of  getting  the 
blankets  folded  right  and  alike,  the  packs  hung  in  place ! 

It  was  like  mobilizing  a  foundling-asylum.  The  over 
grown  hulks  were  giant  infants,  confused  about  every  least 
thing,  incapable  of  remembering  or  accomplishing  the 
smallest  detail. 

And  the  paper  work!  the  books,  the  records,  the  files! 
and  a  weary  on  the  blots  that  fell  on  the  paper  and  had  to 
be  erased  with  infinite  care. 

The  wonder  was  not  that  the  Guard  was  not  more  effi 
cient,  but  that  it  existed  at  all :  that  men  could  be  found 
who  would  endure  the  endless  grind  for  the  sake  of  their 
loyalty,  and  get  no  pay  for  it  except  the  privilege  of  spend- 

joi 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

ing  their  own  money  and  their  leisure,  with  the  occasional 
reward  of  silent  approval  or  the  semi-occasional  bliss  of  a 
brass-band  parade.  :  :  '• 

While  the  order  still  trembled  in  his  aspen  hand 
Shane  was  summoned  to  a  meeting  in  the  officers'  room, 
and  the  colonel  delivered  a  blistering  harangue  on  the 
importance  of  the  inspection.  He  was  determined  to 
attain  a  perfect  record.  The  Regular  Army  officers 
always  praised  the  regiment  for  its  splendid  vigor  and 
fighting  quality,  and  he  wanted  equal  praise  for  their 
equipment,  training,  and  attendance. 

He  demanded  100  per  cent.,  or  better,  and  he  held  the 
officers  personally  responsible  for  the  presence  of  every 
man.  No  excuse  whatever  would  be  accepted  for  an 
absence  except  a  certificate  of  interment.  A  doctor's 
certificate  would  not  be  looked  at.  If  the  man  were  too 
ill  to  walk  in,  an  ambulance  and  a  litter  must  be  sent  for 
him. 

The  officers  staggered  away,  solemnized  by  their  re 
sponsibilities.  In  Shane's  company-room  his  captain  de 
livered  another  and  fiercer  tirade.  He  divided  the  roster 
between  his  two  lieutenants  and  insisted  that  each  should 
secure  a  personal  pledge  from  each  of  the  men  on  his  list. 
If  there  were  any  trouble  with  employers,  the  employers 
must  be  visited  and  compelled  to  let  their  men  off  for  that 
night.  The  year  before,  the  company  had  paraded  with 
one  man  missing,  and  the  disgrace  was  terrible. 

Shane  got  away  from  the  armory,  at  length,  and  hast 
ened  to  his  shop,  where  Mr.  Bjerring  came  down  on  him 
like  an  avalanche  of  snow  and  accused  him  of  having  spent 
the  evening  spooning  with  his  girl. 

" Spooning  with  me  gerl,  is  it?"  Shane  moaned.  "Sure 
and  if  I  ever  get  next  or  near  her  for  two  minyutes  it  '11 
be  only  for  to  tell  her  I  haven't  the  time  to  say  good-by." 

102 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE   A    BIRD 

Those  were  busy  days  for  Shane  O'Mealia.  He  lived 
to  go  to  chapel  and  hear  the  banns  called  the  first  time. 
He  was  told  that  they  were  called  the  second  time,  but 
he  was  pursuing  a  soldier  that  Sunday  morning  from  one 
old  address  to  another  and  another.  His  sole  source  of 
comfort  was  the  angelic  patience  of  Moyna,  who  was 
satisfied  with  an  occasional  telephone  chat  from  the  stove- 
shop  or  the  soldier-shop. 

At  last  she  rebelled!  And  he  received  at  the  armory, 
where  he  was  working  on  the  books,  this  special  order  from 
the  Headquarters  of  the  Home  Guard: 

DEAR  MR.  O'MEALIA, — If  it's  an  absentee  Fm  marryin',  I'd 
be  glad  to  know  it  sooner  than  later.  Or  is  it  the  new  fashion 
to  get  the  divorce  before  you  get  married?  I've  droves  of 
questions  to  be  asking  you  about  how  I'm  to  furnish  the  flatteen, 
and  the  invitations  to  the  wedding  and'the  like  of  that,  but  you're 
never  here.  If  I  was  your  old  wife  itself  these  ten  years,  you 
couldn't  be  away  more.  This  even  you  come  up  here  and  pay 
your  respects  to  your  Share  of  the  World,  or  I'm  no  longer 

Yours, 

MOYNA  KILLILEA. 

Shane  broke  away  from  the  captain  and  the  battalion 
adjutant,  who  were  trying  to  get  the  company  paper  to 
rights,  and  went  to  see  Moyna  instead  of  the  waiting 
Bjerring.  It  was  like  a  reunion  after  long  absence. 
Moyna's  temper  was  appeased  and  she  promised  to  be 
patient  with  the  distracted  Shane. 

The  next  morning  the  frigid  Mr.  Bjerring  proved  that 
he  could  heat  up.  He  was  red-hot,  scarlet  with  wrath, 
and  he  said: 

"Young  feller,  this  is  your  last  chance  in  this  shop. 
You're  here  every  night  from  eight  to  ten,  or  you  don't 
get  in  here  daytimes  at  all.  Get  me?  One  more  absence 
and  you're  fired,  and  I'm  givin'  you  your  notice  now." 

103 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Shane  saw  his  honeymoon  gone  up  in  smoke,  and  his 
commission  in  his  beloved  regiment  forfeited,  and  he 
cried: 

"But  I  can't  be  here  Thursday  night  whatever,  for 
that's  inspiction  night." 

"Inspiction  of  what!"  Bjerring  sneered. 

"Me  battalion!"  said  Shane. 

"Your  battalion!"  Bjerring  roared.  " Where'd  you  get 
a  battalion?"  He  paused  with  jaws  agape,  then  nodded. 
"Oh,  I  see!  You  joined  the  regiment  in  spite  of  your 
promise,  eh?" 

"I'd  joined  before  the  promise,  so  I  didn't  join  again." 

"Oho,  aha,  uh-huh!"  Bjerring  jeered.  "You're  pretty 
smart,  ain't  you?  Well,  we'll  see  how  smart  you  are. 
If  you  ain't  here  Thursday  evening,  I'll  fire  you  so  quick 
it  '11  make  your  head  swim." 

Shane's  pride  was  nauseated,  but  he  dared  not  let  it  rule 
him. 

"But  if  I'm  absent,  we'll  not  have  our  hundhred  per 
cint.  of  attindance.  It  'd  be  a  crime." 

"A  hundhred  per  cint.  of  attindance,  is  it?  Well,  that 
would  be  a  calamity!  If  you  weren't  there  the  country 
would  go  to  rack  and  ruin,  I  suppose.  Ah,  you  make  me 
sick!  You  got  a  head  full  of  stove-polish  for  brains.  A 
hundred  per  cint. !  Haw-haw!" 

It  is  hard  for  an  Irishman  to  be  mocked  by  anybody, 
but  to  be  imitated  by  a  Scandinavian!  The  stoves  began 
to  dance  around  Shane  in  a  fairy  ring.  He  had  lost  too 
many  jobs,  however,  and  he  had  vowed  that  dynamite 
should  not  unseat  him  from  this  one  till  a  better  ap 
peared,  so  he  held  his  whist  with  super-Hibernian  self- 
control. 

When  his  noon  hour  off  arrived,  Shane  flew  to  the 
Morahans  to  share  his  distress  with  Moyna.  The  whole 

104 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE    A    BIRD 

family  was  at  dinner  and  Delia  thrust  a  plate  and  a  chair 
into  the  circle  for  Shane.  But  he  could  not  eat,  for  ex 
citement,  and  he  spoiled  Moyna's  appetite  on  her. 

"The  devil  fetch  me,"  he  groaned,  "but  how  am  I  to 
be  at  the  shop  and  at  the  airmory  the  both  of  thim  the 
same  time?" 

"There's  just  wan  way  you'd  be  able  for  that,"  said 
Michael. 

"Then  tell  it  me  quick!" 

"Be  a  bird!"  said  Michael,  and  when  Shane  knitted 
his  brows  in  puzzlement,  the  old  man  growled:  "Ah, 
you're  not  forgettin'  the  father  of  all  Irish  bulls? — Sir 
Boyle  Roche's  famous  observation  that  a  man  could  not 
be  in  two  places  at  the  wan  time  except  he  were  a  bird. 
Be  a  bird  and  you'll  do  the  thrick  handsomely." 

Shane  turned  away  to  hide  his  anger,  and  Delia  cuffed 
her  husband  over  the  jaw. 

"Take  shame  to  you  for  makin'  light  of  the  boy's 
trouble." 

"I'm  not  makin*  light  of  it,"  said  Michael.  "I'm 
takin'  light  to  it.  There's  one  way  only  and  I've  told 
him." 

They  all  talked  it  over  and  under  and  round  about,  but 
Michael's  solution  was  the  single  one — and  that  was 
impracticable.  So  Shane  went  back  to  his  work  no 
nearer  a  decision  than  before. 

That  evening  Shane  stole  away  from  the  shop  for  half 
an  hour  and  ran  to  the  armory  to  explain  to  his  captain 
that  he  simply  could  not  be  present  Thursday  night. 
The  first  battalion  was  undergoing  inspection.  The  men 
were  drawn  up  in  lines  like  lads  at  a  hiring-market  in  the 
old  country  and  the  grim  inspecting  officers  were  going 
along  putting  their  microscopes  on  them. 

One  of  the  companies  had  a  man  missing — a  corporal 

105 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

he  was,  too.  He  had  promised  to  be  there  and  a  broken 
leg  had  been  his  lame  excuse.  His  officers  were  covered 
with  shame. 

The  colonel  was  so  discouraged  and  Captain  Kerin 
so  worried  that  Shane  did  not  dare  announce  his  own  in 
tended  desertion.  He  went  to  his  locker  to  make  sure 
that  everything  was  in  place.  He  opened  it  and  fell 
back  with  a  yell. 

His  uniform  was  gone! 

Shane  could  not  believe  his  eyes.  He  put  his  hand  in 
among  the  remnants  of  the  contents.  The  fatigue  cap 
was  there,  but  it  was  not  to  be  worn  at  inspection.  His 
campaign  hat,  his  olive-drab  coat  and  breeches,  his  belt, 
his  sword,  his  puttees,  his  revolver  and  holster — all  were 
gone! 

He  called  the  quartermaster  sergeant  to  make  sure  that 
it  was  not  an  optical  illusion.  The  sergeant  confirmed 
Shane's  eyes  and  rivaled  his  dismay.  But  he  had  no 
explanation  to  make,  except  that  the  fairies  were  in  it. 
He  did  not  quite  believe  in  the  fairies,  especially  in  the 
United  States,  but  this  looked  like  evidence  that  they  had 
come  over  in  some  ship.  While  Shane  was  tearing 
through  all  the  other  lockers  to  see  if  his  things  had  been 
shifted,  the  armorer  came  to  him  and  saluted: 

"Lootinant,  you're  wanted  on  the  'phone." 

Shane's  heart  leaped:  the  thief,  the  Judas,  was  over 
come  with  remorse  and  was  going  to  make  restitution. 

"Who  is  it?" 

The  old  armorer's  eyes  twinkled  and  there  was  the  grin 
of  a  laugh  behind  his  long  mustaches. 

"  'Twas  a  lady's  voice.  When  I  asked  her  what  was 
her  name,  she  answered,  'And  does  he  get  calls  from  so 
many  ladies  he  has  to  have  their  names?'" 

"It's  Moyna,"  said  Shane.  He  dragged  himself  to  the 

106 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE    A    BIRD 

telephone,  and  though  he  believed  that  a  brave  man 
should  spare  his  dear  ones  the  worst  shocks,  this  last 
cataclysm  was  too  vast  to  conceal.  It  would  be  like 
trying  to  break  an  earthquake  gently. 

"Och,  Moyna,  Moyna!"  he  moaned  across  the  wire. 
"Me  uniforrum!  me  uniforrum!  The  devil  has  stole  it 
off  me  while  it  was  safe  within  in  me  locker!" 

Moyna's  voice  expressed  amazement  and  sympathy, 
but  there  was  not  half  enough  horror  in  it  to  suit  Shane. 
How  could  there  be?  A  woman  could  not  understand 
such  disaster.  In  fact,  there  was  a  glitter  of  cheerfulness 
in  her  tone  when  she  went  on: 

"Shaneen,  quit  out  of  there  and  come  up  here,  for  I've 
found  the  way  for  you  to  be  the  bird  that's  in  the  both 
places  at  the  one  time." 

"What  talk  have  you  of  birds!  It's  no  time  for  such 
nons'nse.  I've  to  get  back  to  the  shop  or  I'll  lose  me 
job  for  the  lasht  time." 

"But  you'll  lose  me  and  the  rigimint  if  you  don't  come 
here.  I'll  keep  you  but  a  whileen." 

"  I'm  on  me  way,"  he  sighed,  meekly. 

He  slunk  from  the  armory  and  took  a  street-car.  His 
load  of  woe  was  so  heavy  the  car  creaked  under  it  and 
keened  along  the  rails.  He  could  hardly  hoist  his  burden 
up  the  three  flights  of  stairs  to  the  Morahans. 

Kate  answered  his  ring,  and  she  was  smiling  outrage 
ously:  "There's  a  gintleman  here  to  see  you,  Shane." 
Then  she  snickered.  Her  flippancy  was  atrocious  at 
such  a  time. 

Shane  dragged  his  feet  into  the  parlor,  and  there  facing 
him  was  his  own  uniform  drawn  up  erect  and  saluting  him. 

"Moyna!"  he  stammered.  "What  the —  How  the — 
Where  the—  Why  the—  Who  the—" 

The  rigid  figure  slumped. 

107 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"Och,  blathers,  he  knew  me  at  the  first  peep." 

"Knew  you?"  he  echoed,  "and  why  wouldn't  I  know 
you!" 

"Well,  that's  from  bein'  so  well  acquainted  with  me 
face;  but  nobody  else  would  know  me.  And  I'm  goin* 
to  the  inspiction  and  stand  in  your  place  and  name. 
And  sure  it's  not  deceptionable  at  all,  for'  won't  I  be 
wearin'  your  name  the  next  week  and  won't  the  priest 
make  us  one?  So  you  see,  don't  you?" 

"I  see  entirely  too  much,"  said  Shane. 

But  Moyna  would  not  give  up.  "Forget  what  you 
remimber  now  and  look  again.  Who  would  know  me  for 
a  gerl?" 

She  was  a  winsome,  graceful  figure,  and  lacked  nothing 
but  to  be  convincing.  Under  the  campaign  hat  a  bulge 
of  red  hair  was  wadded.  The  coat  wrinkled  over  the 
shoulders  and  strained  across  the  chest — and  at  the  hips. 
The  riding-breeches  she  could  not  button  at  all  across  her 
fat  knees. 

She  saluted  again  after  the  British  fashion,  palm  to  the 
front. 

Shane  could  do  no  less  than  click  his  heels  and  return 
the  salute,  bringing  his  right  hand  up  smartly,  palm  to 
the  left  in  the  American  fashion. 

Then  he  brought  his  other  hand  up  to  hide  his  wide 
spreading  smile.  She  was  so  funny  in  that  gear  that  he 
smiled  even  through  his  heavy  gloom.  She  was  so  funny 
that  his  moral  indignation  was  late  in  arriving. 

Moyna  was  flattered  by  his  salute  and  she  quivered  with 
the  triumph  of  her  plan.  When  he  said,  "You'd  never 
go  to  the  airmory  in  the  like  of  that,"  her  answer  was  a 
ringing  declaration:  "To  the  airmory  is  it — wouldn't  I 
go  barefut  on  me  hands  and  knees  from  Cork  to  Antrim 
for  you,  Shaneen!  And  at  that  they'd  never  know  me." 

108 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE   A    BIRD 

Shane  could  not  keep  up  the  game: 

"Know  you?"  said  Shane.  "Why,  you  blessed  little 
scandal,  they'd  know  you  as  far  as  they  could  see  you 
and  fartherer  to  the  back  of  that!  You  couldn't  decave 
a  blind  man  with  that  shape." 

"What's  the  matther  with  me  shape?"  Moyna  stormed. 
"Sure  there  was  min  in  Lisdoonvarna  said  me  shape  was 
proper  enough." 

"And  I  agree  with  them  only  for  wishin'  to  poonch 
their  heads  for  darin'  to  know  whether  you'd  a  shape  or 
not.  What  business  was  it  of  theirs?" 

"Well,  I'd  hardly  be  livin'  without  cuttin'  some  kind 
of  figger.  Of  course,  if  you  don't  like  it — " 

"Your  figger  is  ahl  right  and  betther  than  that.  But 
it's  too  good  for  the  duds  of  a  man,  and  if  it  wasn't  it's 
not  me  would  be  marryin'  you.  I'm  lookin'  to  be  wedded 
to  a  colleen,  not  a  lieutinant.  Step  out  here  and  take  a 
look  at  yourself.  Be  careful!  Don't  breathe,  or  you'll 
be  shootin'  the  buttons  off  me  blouse! — and  for  the  love 
of  God  go  take  off  those  pants  or  put  somethin'  over  them 
for  fear  somebody  would  come  wahkin'  in  on  ye.  They'd 
think  it  was  a  comic-opera  house." 

Moyna  turned  and  ran,  and  ran  so  womanly  that  Shane 
forgave  her  her  wickedness,  though  his  whoop  of  laughter 
was  not  to  her  liking.  She  would  not  leave  her  room  till 
Shane  pleaded  through  the  door  that  she  had  given  him 
a  wonderful  idea. 

Then  she  came  forth  as  shy  as  Ruth  and  clothed  in  her 
right  clothes.  She  brought  back  Shane's  uniform  in  a 
great  parcel — but  she  refused  to  tell  who  it  was  she  had 
bribed  to  steal  it  for  her,  or  with  what  bribery.  Shane 
suspected  the  old  armorer  and  his  skeleton  key,  but  Moyna 
was  such  a  different  thing  in  skirts  that  Shane  could 
hardly  be  interested  in  such  details.  He  smiled: 

109 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"I'm  that  glad  to  have  you  back,  I  forgive  you  your 
criminal  pasht.  I  can  hug  you  now  and  welcome.  But 
can  you  see  me  embracin'  what  you  was  a  few  minyutes 
back?  No,  you  cannot." 

"I'm  sorry  I  shocked  you." 

"Troth,  and  'twas  a  shock  I  needed,  for  I've  taken  a 
grand  idea  from  your  masquerade.  I'll  get  one  of  the 
lootinants  in  one  of  the  other  battalions  to  stand  on  the 
floor  for  me.  My  company  is  the  last  company  in  the 
battalion  and  they'll  be  a  long  while  reachin'  it.  I'll  wear 
me  uniform  to  the  shop.  I'll  work  like  the  Ould  Boy  itself 
and  I'll  get  to  the  airmory  in  time  to  be  there  before  the 
inspiction  officers  1'ave  off  work,  belike.  Anyhow,  they 
are  strangers  to  me  and  me  to  thim,  me  being  a  new 
officer,  and  they'll  never  suspicion." 

The  next  day  Shane  telephoned  his  captain  and  asked 
what  would  happen  if  he  missed  the  inspection. 

"I  can't  tell  you  over  the  telephone,"  said  Captain 
Kerin.  "They'd  arrest  me.  But  come  out  to  the  tan 
nery  and  I'll  show  you." 

Shane  haltingly  explained  the  situation  and  Captain 
Kerin  almost  overloaded  the  wire  with  his  wrath  as  he 
thought  of  Shane's  dereliction.  He  had  hardly  any  anger 
left  unexpended  when  Shane  propounded  his  inspired  in 
vention  of  a  substitute. 

"I'll  not  hear  of  it, ' '  Kerin  clamored.  "It's  dishonorable. ' ' 

"But  it's  dishonorable  of  the  divil  to  keep  me  away 
and  to  ruin  the  hundhred  per  cint.  yous  all  have  worked 
so  hard  for.  I  can't  abide  the  idea  of  me  bein'  the  cause 
of  the  disgrace." 

"I'll  not  hear  of  a  substitute,"  the  captain  roared,  a 
little  gentlier. 

"Who  would  you  suggest?"  Shane  wheedled.  "Would 
Lootinant  Clavery  do  it?" 

no 


EXCEPT   HE   WERE   A    BIRD 

"He's  in  our  battalion  and  he's  well  known  to  brigade 
headquarters." 

"How  would  Liftinant — Lieutinant — you  see  I'm  so 
new  I  don't  know  manny  of  the  officers  well  enough  to  ask 
them  would  they  do  it." 

"You're  not  asking  me  to  ask  them,  are  you?  Good 
Lord !  you've  a  queer  notion  of  me.  Would  you  lose  me 
my  commission,  too?" 

" I'm  disthracted,  that's  thrue,"  said  Shane.  "Well,  I'll 
bother  you  no  more.  I'll  give  up." 

"Er-ahum!"  said  the  captain.  "If  you  should  get  old 
Sergeant  Gavigan  to  find  a  man  for  you — he  knows  every 
body — don't  you  let  me  know  it.  If  I  find  somebody  on 
the  floor  in  your  place,  I  could  say  I  knew  nothing  of  it, 
and  I  don't!  And  I  won't!  Good-by!" 

As  Shane  hung  up  the  receiver  he  winked  with  grave 
deliberation  at  nobody  at  all.  Then  he  called  up  Sergeant 
Gavigan,  who  worked  in  the  city  water-works,  and  ex 
plained  the  problem  to  his  understanding  old  soul. 

"Leave  it  to  me,  Loot!  I'm  a  first-rate  fixer.  I'll  get 
you  a  good  man,  and  don't  you  worry." 

"He  mustn't  be  in  our  battalion,  you  know." 

"I  understand,  Loot.  I'll  rustle  round  among  the 
young  loots  and  pick  one  of  'em  will  be  only  too  glad  to 
oblige  you  and  the  company.  You're  safe  in  my  hands." 

The  next  day — the  dreadful  day  of  the  inspection — 
Shane  called  up  Gavigan  again,  but  he  was  informed  that 
the  sergeant  was  out  on  the  hunt  for  a  man  and  left  word 
for  Lieutenant  O'Mealia  that  he  was  not  to  worry. 

Shane  worried,  none  the  less,  and  Bjerring  worried  him. 
B jerring  had  set  himself  to  win  this  point  in  his  feud  against 
militarism,  and  he  kept  a  close  watch  on  Shane. 

When  Shane  appeared  that  evening  at  the  shop  he  did 
not  dare  wear  his  uniform  as  he  planned — at  least  not 

in 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

openly.  He  had  it  on  under  his  other  clothes,  and  it 
nearly  choked  him  all  over.  His  pistol  and  hat  he  had 
left  in  his  locker. 

He  set  about  his  stock-taking  tasks  with  such  enthu 
siasm  that  Bjerring  was  softened  with  success,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  he  said  with  a  yawn: 

"Well,  we'll  call  it  a  day's  work.  And  if  you're  fired 
from  the  Ninety-sixth  it's  better  than  being  fired  from 
your  bread  and  butter,  and  some  day  you'll  thank  me  for 
saving  you  from  wasting  all  your  evenings  and  getting 
nothing  for  it.  There's  nothing  in  it,  my  boy!'*  And  he 
actually  said  "Good  night!"  when  he  locked  up  the  store. 

Shane  waited  till  he  saw  which  way  Bjerring  was  go 
ing,  then  he  went  the  other  way.  He  rounded  the  first 
corner,  and  ran  to  the  armory,  ran  to  his  locker,  ran  out 
of  his  mufti,  slapped  his  hat  on  and  ran  to  the  drill  floor 
as  he  buckled  his  belt  around  him  and  strapped  his  pistol 
holster  to  his  thigh. 

The  inspection  was  finished  for  all  the  companies  but 
his.  He  paused  to  look  the  field  over.  In  front  of  the 
first  platoon  the  first  lieutenant  stood  at  ease,  inspected 
and  approved.  The  second  lieutenant  was  hidden  by  a 
little  mob  of  colonels  and  the  like. 

Shane  wondered  who  his  substitute  could  be.  He  hur 
ried  to  a  point  of  observation.  He  could  see  only  that 
there  was  much  excitement  and  that  Captain  Kerin  was 
red  as  a  British  flag. 

Shane,  trembling  with  curiosity  and  dread,  dared  to 
join  the  group.  He  was  unobserved  except  by  the  horrified 
row  of  privates  and  corporals  in  the  line. 

Shane  peered  between  the  heads  of  the  inspectors  and 
made  out  the  substitute  that  Gavigan  had  provided  him. 
He  almost  fainted. 

It  was  Lieutenant  McCooey: 

112 


EXCEPT   HE    WERE   A    BIRD 

Never  had  he  looked  so  immortal  homely.  His  face 
reminded  Shane  of  the  hunk  of  corned  beef  in  a  boiled 
dinner 

An  angry  brigade  officer  was  saying  to  a  horrified 
regular: 

"I've  seen  this  man  before.  I'd  remember  him  in  a 
million." 

And  Shane  recalled  Moyna's  words.  Colonel  Van 
Nydeck  thundered  at  the  miserable  wretch  whose  only 
crimes  were  his  big  face  and  his  big  heart: 

"I  never  forget  a  face.  I've  seen  you  before  some 
where." 

"Yis,  sor,"  McCooey  burbled.     "I'm  often  there." 

"I  inspected  you  Tuesday  night  in  the  first  battalion." 

"That's  me  twin  brother,  please,"  McCooey  explained, 
with  happy  speed. 

"And  I  never  forget  a  name!"  Colonel  Van  Nydeck 
thundered  again.  "That  man's  name  was  McCooey!" 

"Yis,  sor,  so  it  is!" 

"But  your  name  on  the  roster  is  O'Mealia." 

"Yis,  sor,  so  it  is!" 

"Then  how  in — er — how  in  reason  could  you  be  twin 
brothers — with  his  name  McCooey  and  yours  O'Mealia?" 

"Me  mother  married  twice,  if  you  please,"  McCooey 
was  inspired  to  explain. 

The  logic  of  this  chloroformed  Colonel  Van  Nydeck  for 
a  moment.  But  from  the  way  he  blinked  and  choked  and 
sputtered  Shane  realized  that  in  a  moment  he  would  ex 
plode  and  probably  scatter  shrapnel  enough  to  annihilate 
the  entire  company. 

With  all  the  bravery  there  was  in  his  Irish  blood,  Shane 
pushed  through  the  colonels  and  majors  and,  shoving 
McCooey  aside,  took  his  place  and  saluted. 

When  Colonel  Van  Nydeck  opened  his  eyes  he  thought 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

he  was  bewitched,  for  in  place  of  the  red  caricature  of 
McCooey  stood  the  pale  white  ideal  of  Shane's  marble 
mien. 

Colonel  Van  Nydeck  began  to  choke  again  and  Shane 
explained : 

"Asking  your  pairdon,  sir,  but  I  was  called  away  un- 
avydably  and  Lootinant  McCooey  was  kind  enough  to 
hold  me  place  in  the  line  till  I  could  hoostle  meself  back." 

"Do  you  realize,  sir,  what  such  an  imposition  means, 
sir?"  Colonel  Van  Nydeck  roared. 

"That  I  do,  but  it  was  a  matther  of  losin'  me  job  and 
me  wife  or  roonin'  the  record  of  the  rigimint,  so  I  took 
the  chance.  But  lave  the  poonishmint  fahl  on  me  and 
not  on  poor  Mac." 

"We  ought  to  take  the  shoulder  straps  off  both  of 
you,  sir!" 

"Then  take  them  off  me  twice,  if  you  plase.  But 
don't  go  for  to  maltrate  poor  McCooey  for  the  kind  heart 
he  has  in  him.  Sure,  he'd  do  the  same  for  annybody, 
were  it  your  honor  himself." 

"Well,  of  all  the—  Why,  I'll—  Who  ever  heard  of 
such  a —  Whew!  I'm  choking." 

Shane  went  on  looking  as  beautiful  as  only  a  bad  angel 
could  look : 

"And  you  oughtn't  to  be  poonishin'  the  captain,  ayther 
— nor  the  min.  We  ahl  worked  so  desprit  hard  for  the 
hundhred  per  cint.  If  you'll  give  us  that,  I'll  resign  to- 
morra  or  stand  coort  mairtial  or  anny  damned — excuse  it, 
plase — annything  you  think  best.  Only  don't  hould  it 
against  Mister  McCooey.  There's  not  so  much  kindness 
in  the  worruld  you  can  afford  to  crush  it  whin  you  see 
it." 

The  colonels  and  majors  looked  at  the  benevolent 
McCooey.  He  was  a  very  allegory  of  misguided  philan- 

114 


EXCEPT    HE    WERE    A    BIRD 

thropy.  There  was  no  limit  to  his  goodness.  Even 
now  in  his  ordeal  he  had  the  kind  word  for  Shane: 
"Asking  your  pardon,  sirs,  but  you  should  overlook  Mr. 
O'Mealia's  mistake.  He's  that  new  to  the  milit'ry,  it 
was  only  the  other  night  wasn't  he  ordering  his  min  to 
'Right  shoulder  bay 'nits!'  " 

The  colonels  and  the  majors  grinned  and  withdrew  for 
a  conference.  At  length  they  came  back  trying  to  look 
ferocious,  and  Colonel  Van  Nydeck  glowered  and  growled : 

"We  have  decided  to  forget  what  happened  and  we  will 
overlook  this  offense  in  spite  of  its  gravity.  We  think 
that  you  have  both  been  punished  enough." 

"  I  thank  you  kindly,  I'm  sure — and  so  will  Miss  Killilea, 
who's  perishin'  in  the  gallery  there.  One  thing  more," 
said  the  amazing  Shane.  "I'd  like  to  apologize  before 
yous  all  for  dragging  Mr.  McCooey  into  this.  I  wish 
it  had  been  annybody  else." 

"Don't  you  do  it,"  said  Colonel  Van  Nydeck.  "If  it 
had  been  anybody  else  but  McCooey,  it  would  have 
been  all  day  with  you.  And  what  is  he  up  to  now?" 

To  the  astonishment  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  Mr. 
McCooey  was  waving  one  hand  at  a  beautiful  girl  standing 
in  the  balcony.  And  he  was  yelling  through  the  trumpet 
of  his  other  hand : 

"It's  ahl  right,  Miss  Killilea!    I  fixed  it!" 
9 


LONG  EVER  AGO 

JUST  once  the  impulsive  Michael  Morahan  took  his 
wife,  the  patient  Delia,  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  in 
the  Bronx.  It  happened  to  be  a  day  when  the  keepers 
were  pulling  a  tooth  for  an  old  lion.  They  had  manacled 
his  claws  and  his  jaws,  but  they  had  not  manacled  his 
voice,  and  Delia  never  forgot  the  beast's  heart-curdling 
belches  of  rage  and  pain  while  the  tooth  was  being  evicted, 
nor  the  abrupt  purr  of  bliss  that  afterward  made  silence 
audible  and  comfortable. 

She  never  forgot  it  because  her  husband  so  often  re 
minded  her  of  it,  especially  when  he  was  preparing  for  a 
celebration  of  some  sort.  He  loved  being  dressed,  but  he 
hated  getting  dressed.  He  grew  so  wroth  always  that 
he  could  not  see  what  was  before  him  and  was  constantly 
hiding  what  he  was  hunting. 

He  was  peculiarly  ferocious  to-night  because  he  was 
putting  on  his  "full-driss  soot"  and  was  to  wear  his  high 
hat  and  a  badge.  He  was  to  represent  the  men  of  his 
county — Clare,  the  Banner  County,  no  less — and  at  the 
Clare  Lady  Hurlers'  Annual  Ball! 

Michael  was  the  vice-president  of  the  "Clare  County 
P.  S.  B.  and  A.  Association" — P.  S.  B.  and  A.  meaning 
"Patriotic,  Social,  Benevolent,  and  Athletic."  The 
president  was  ill — "he  having  a  sore  throath  on  him" — 
and  Michael  was  to  lead  the  grand  march  with  Miss 

116 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

Belendia  O'Rahilly,  the  majestic  captain  of  the  lady 
hurlers. 

Delia  would  have  been  uneasier  about  this  if  Herself 
had  not  been  the  representative  of  the  Clare  Ladies' 
Benevolent  Association,  and  therefore  slated  to  march 
directly  behind  Michael  with  the  tall  and  handsome 
Martin  Kelleher,  the  manager  of  the  famous  Clare  Hurl 
ers.  Other  clubs  of  hurlers  and  lady  hurlers  and  merely 
social  associations  of  other  counties  were  to  be  present, 
and  there  were  to  be  two  bands  to  play  on  two  floors; 
one,  American  music,  and  one,  Irish. 

A  grand  night  was  sure  and  the  daylight  would  doubt 
less  surprise  the  dancers — or  rather  it  would  not  surprise 
them,  because  the  Irish  are  the  tireless  steppers,  and 
every  Saturday  night  and  many  another  night  they  set 
buildings  all  over  town  to  rocking  with  their  thousands 
of  jigging  feet. 

Michael  had  cause  to  be  anxious  about  his  important 
appearance,  and  he  kept  Delia  and  their  old-maid  daugh 
ter,  Kate,  jigging  to  find  him  and  fetch  him  his  equipment. 

At  length  he  was  harnessed  as  far  as  his  collar,  and  he 
was  growing  purple  in  his  combat  with  that,  trying  in 
vain  to  make  both  ends  meet.  He  had  shoved  his  left 
fingers  down  inside  the  neck  of  his  shirt  to  push  the  collar- 
button  out,  and  he  had  bruised  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  trying  to  engage  the  buttonhole  and  the  button. 
The  only  result  was  to  derange  his  Adam's  apple  and  to  lac 
erate  a  number  of  collars. 

Delia,  who  was  in  the  bathroom,  trying  to  wash  her 
own  hands  after  buttoning  his  big  patent-leather  shoes  on 
his  bigger  feet,  came  back  to  find  him  standing  among  the 
ruins  of  half  a  dozen  collars  and  trying  to  terrify  his  last 
one  into  forming  a  union  with  its  other  end.  The  hand 
at  his  throat  impeded  his  articulation,  but  not  his  roar. 

117 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

Delia  smiled  at  his  mien  of  fiendish  malignance  as  if  it 
were  a  harmless  mask  on  the  face  of  a  child,  and  said: 

"Oh,  it's  on'y  you.  I  thought  they  were  exthracthin' 
another  toot'th  from  the  ould  African  line  in  the  Zoo- 
ological  Gairdens." 

With  the  fearlessness  01  a  lion-tamer  she  reached  up, 
pulled  his  paws  down,  and  said: 

"You  poor  little  bouchaleen,  for  why  are  you  trine  to 
button  your  fisht  into  your  neck?  Have  you  no  pockets 
to  put  it  in  or  is  it  a  new  fashion  you're  startin'?" 

Michael's  eyes  popped,  but  her  cool  deft  hands  had 
the  collar  buttoned  before  he  could  bite  her  head  off,  so 
he  patted  her  fat  back  and  cooed  like  a  ring-dove  nuzzling 
its  mate : 

"Och,  Dalia  asthore,  it's  a  miracle- worker  you  are. 
You  can  button  a  collar  or  a  shoe  as  aisy  as  sayin'  a  prayer. 
I'm  wondherin'  if  I'm  doin'  wisely  to  1'ave  you  march 
with  that  Martin  Kelleher.  He's  hardly  betther  than 
half  my  age  and  twicet  my  stren'th.  But  at  that  I'll 
have  a  go  at  him  if  you  smile  too  sweetly  on  him." 

"More  betoken,  it's  you  that  had  better  be  very  careful 
how  you  make  up  to  that  O'Rahilly  beauty.  She's  half 
my  weight  and  twice  my  len'th  and  she's  a  wildcat  in  a 
quarrel,  but  I'll  wallop  her  wit'  her  own  caman  if  she 
don't  wahk  very  correct." 

The  mutual  flattery  of  mutual  jealousy  delighted  both 
of  their  old  gray  hearts,  and  he  hugged  her  till  he  threat 
ened  to  break  the  ribs  of  her  new  corset.  Then  he  noticed 
that  it  was  the  corset  he  was  embracing,  and  he  flared  up 
again : 

"You're  not  tellin'  me  you're  not  drissed  yet ?  And  me 
all  readied  up.  And  I've  got  to  set  round  in  this  hot 
collar  and  miss  1'adin'  the  march  belike  while  you  primp. 
And  what  you  been  up  to  this  lahng  while?" 

118 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

She  handed  him  a  look  that  showed  the  strange  power 
of  the  human  eye.  He  remembered  that  he  had  kept  her 
busy  on  his  own  errands  and  he  laughed  in  time  to  save 
his  scalp. 

''Don't  say  it.     I  know  it." 

He  brushed  down  his  excited  nair  and  announced  that 
he  would  wait  for  her  in  the  dining-room.  He  carried  his 
long-tailed  coat  over  his  arm,  put  it  reverently  on  the 
shoulders  of  a  chair,  pulled  the  patent  rocker  up  under  the 
center  light,  and  sat  down  to  reread  the  evening  paper. 

He  had  just  got  his  forehead  between  the  shafts  of  his 
spectacles  when  he  felt  a  draught  blowing  on  his  white 
shirt-sleeves. 

He  peered  over  the  rims  of  his  glasses  and  saw  that  the 
window  was  wide  open  and  half  filled  with  the  ample  form 
of  his  daughter  Kate.  She  was  leaning  out,  as  usual, 
gazing  at  an  elevated  train  rumbling  by  with  a  glitter 
of  lighted  windows. 

"Kateen!"  Michael  roared,  "come  in  out  of  that,  out 
of  the  street,  will  you?" 

She  did  not  hear  him  for  the  noise  of  the  train.  He 
slammed  down  his  paper,  and,  stalking  over  to  her, 
reached  through  the  window  till  he  had  her  by  the  shoulder 
and  dragged  her  in. 

The  bump  she  took  on  her  head  startled  her  hardly  so 
much  as  her  father's  voice : 

"Whativer  is  it's  on  you,  Kate,  to  be  ahlways  in  and 
out  of  that  windy?  Have  you  never  seen  an  ilivated 
train  before?  Begobs,  you've  seen  a  million.  I've  seen 
you  see  them !  But  you're  ahlways  hangin'  there.  I  won- 
dher  your  elbows  ain't  grew  to  the  ledge.  I  doubt  but 
you'll  be  havin'  cairns  on  them.  Have  you  a  sweet- 
hairt's  a  train  gaird,  or  what  is  it  you're  expectin'  to  see — 
a  collision  or  a  balloon  ascinsion,  or  what  at  all?" 

119 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

Kate  walked  away,  answering,  drearily,  "Nothin',  pa, 
nothin'." 

His  first  anger  improved  to  his  second  stage. 

"And  are  you  tellin'  me  you're  not  ready  yit?  The 
divil  admire  me!  but  you've  your  praskeen  on  still  and 
your  old  driss.  Is  it  to  a  barn  dance  or  an  apern-and- 
necktie  pairty  you  think  you're  goin'  to?  No,  this  is  a 
grand  bahl — the  grandest  iver!" 

"I'm  not  goin',  pa!" 

"And  why  are  you  not  goin'?" 

"I  don't  care  to  go." 

"You  don't  care?  And  what  have  you  to  care?  It's 
me  that's  doin'  the  carin'.  I'll  not  be  lavin'  you  here 
alone.  I'd  not  thrust  you  not  to  go  fahlin'  out  the  windy. 
And  for  why  would  you  not  go?" 

"I  never  have  any  fun,  pa.  I'm  only  an  old  maid. 
Nobody  dances  with  me  except  some  other  old  maid.  I'd 
liever  stay  at  home.  The  dishes  are  to  be  washed  yet, 
and  grandma  sleeping  in  her  room  there  ought  not  to  be 
left  alone." 

"I'll  speak  to  Mrs.  Whoriskey  across  the  hahl  to  keep 
an  ear  on  her  would  she  want  annything.  You're  goin' 
to  the  bahl,  and  you'll  have  a  good  time  or  answer  to  me!" 
She  shook  her  head  and  turned  away,  and  for  all  his 
bluster  he  called  for  help:  "Dalia!  Ma!  come  heer, 
would  you,  and  make  this  little-good-for  obey  me  and  go 
to  the  dance.  Sure  and  haven't  I  the  ticket  bought  for 
her?  It  says,  'Tickets  admitting  gintleman  and  lady, 
includin*  wardrobe,  fifty  cints.'  That's  you  and  me,  ma. 
But  I  didn't  take  the  wardrobe.  And  it  says,  '  Extra  lady, 
twinty-five  cints.'  So  I  bought  her  wan,  and  she  would 
be  wastin'  the  quarther,  besides  the  gittin'  in  for  the  half 
price." 

"I  urged  her  and  she  said  she'd  not  go,"  said  Delia, 

120 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

who  appeared  at  the  door.  "And  there's  no  makin'  her 
move  if  she  has  not  a  mind  to.  She's  very  obadient  in 
everything  excipt  what  she  doosn't  want  to  do." 

"It's  a  shame  for  you  to  be  stayin'  home,"  Michael 
growled.  "You'll  not  see  your  ma  thrippin'  the  light 
fanthastic  nor  me  ladin'  off  at  the  hid  of  the  percission. 
The  balance  of  the  family '11  be  there,  ahl  the  byes  and 
their  wives  or  gerls." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  pa,  but  what  am  I  at  a  dance? 
Who'd  ever  dance  with  the  like  of  me?" 

"Ah,  Kate  honey,  I'll  dance  wit'  you  and  proud  of  it, 
if  you'll  dance  the  Irish  dances.  I'd  not  disgrace  my 
heels  with  anny  of  these  moderen  Yankee  diviltries,  these 
thurkey-throts,  and  tongos,  and  boony-hugs,  and  the  like 
thrash.  But  lave  me  loose  in  a  four-hand  reel,  or  a 
rinncefada,  or  a  shlip  jig,  and  I'll  handle  me  feet  as  ar 
tistic  as  the  best  of  thim.  So  come  along  wit'  you  now." 

Kate  shook  her  head  with  the  obstinacy  of  the  meek, 
and  when  Michael  insisted  she  walked  out  of  the  room  and 
locked  herself  behind  her  own  door. 

Michael  was  for  breaking  it  down,  but  Delia  checked 
him. 

"Save  your  breath  for  your  jigs.  Katie  won't  dance 
the  Irish  dances,  and  she  hates  the  Irish  music." 

"Then  she's  no  daughter  of  mine,"  Michael  raged. 

Delia  was  calm  even  at  that,  and  she  smiled: 

"Her  sthubbornness  alone  would  idintify  her  if  she  had 
not  your  jah.  She  takes  her  aisy  and  sinsible  ways  from 
me,  so  lave  her  home.  She  loves  to  be  by  her  lone." 

"She'd  ought  to  go  to  dances  and  the  like  and  meet  the 
min.  She  maybe  might  find  her  match.  How's  anny- 
body  to  marry  her  whin  she  niver  stirs  a  fut  outside  the 
door?  It's  no  convint  I  keep  here  to  have  a  nun  on  me 
hands." 

121 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Maybe  her  seem'  the  way  you  take  on,  she's  contint 
not  to  tie  herself  up  with  anny  of  the  min.  Some  of  you 
seem  to  think  that  you're  ahl  a  woman  has  to  think  of." 

"And  what  else  have  you  to  think  of?  I  ahl  ways  mis- 
thrust  these  women  that  is  too  good  for  the  min.  A 
single  woman's  an  accidint,  I  tell  you,  not  an  intintion. 
Break  open  an  ould  maid's  heart  and  you'll  find  some  lad's 
initials  is  cairved  there." 

Delia  laughed:  "What  need  have  you  min  for  flatthery 
from  us  when  yous  can  ahl  ways  supply  yourselves? 
Katie's  never  been  out  of  my  sight  for  two  days  runnin' 
since  she  was  born — lavin'  out  the  time  she  wint  over  to 
Ireland  to  see  your  mother  for  a  few  months.  And  that 
was  fourteen  years  gone.  And  niver  a  sign  given  of  a 
ring  or  a  letther  written  or  resaved.  Quit  out  of  this 
now  or  you'll  be  late,  and  your  lady  hurler  will  be  struttin' 
off  wit'  a  younger  man  and  I'll  be  losin'  me  beau  Martin." 

Michael  thrust  his  big  bulk  into  his  dress  coat  and 
his  overcoat,  and  put  his  hat  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and 
looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror  with  unconcealed  satisfac 
tion.  He  was  so  pleased  that  his  heart  softened  generally. 

He  went  to  Kate's  door  and  knocked. 

"Good  night,  honey,  and  plisant  drames.  We'll  be 
home  soon  afther  daylight,  so  have  me  breakfast  ready 
and  I'll  ate  it  in  me  driss  soot  like  the  swells  doos." 

Kate  came  out,  and  told  him  how  fine  he  looked,  and 
kissed  him  and  her  mother,  and  watched  them  go. 

When  she  had  closed  the  door  on  them  she  went  back  to 
the  window,  raised  it,  and  leaned  out  again.  She  would 
have  reminded  one  of  the  Blessed  Damosel  on  the  bar  of 
heaven,  she  was  so  different. 

Her  mother  looked  up  and  waved  to  her  and  pointed 
her  out  to  Michael  from  where  they  waited  for  the  surface 
car. 

122 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

She  was  there  long  after  they  had  gone.  She  watched 
train  after  train  go  by.  Then  she  trudged  to  the  kitchen 
and  washed  up  the  dishes  and  put  them  in  the  cupboard 
and  in  the  sideboard.  Now  and  then  she  paused  and 
listened  at  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  old  grandmother 
slept,  or  pretended  to.  But  always  when  she  went  to  the 
dining-room  she  paused  by  the  window  to  watch  the  train 
goby. 

At  last  the  fatigue  of  another  day  at  the  tasks  of  a 
Martha  overcame  her.  She  said  her  unselfish  prayers  and 
stretched  herself  out  wearily  in  her  bed. 

Michael  came  home  fagged  with  enjoyment  long  before 
daybreak.  He  was  sighing  that  he  was  not  the  man  he 
was  when  he  used  to  dance  the  moon  down  and  the  sun 
up.  His  finery  was  rumpled  with  exercise  and  he  pulled 
it  off  regardless.  Kate  would  straighten  it  up  and  press 
it  for  him  later.  He  overslept,  and  waking  him  was  like 
poking  a  polar  bear,  till  Delia  sprinkled  cold  water  on 
him  and  ordered  him  out. 

Kate  waited  on  her  yawning  parents  and  asked  them 
about  the  party  as  if  she  were  their  mother  and  they  the 
youngsters.  She  listened  to  their  rhapsodies  with  an  in 
dulgent  smile  of  affectionate  patience  and  far  less  en 
thusiasm  than  Michael's  ancient  mother  revealed  when 
Kate  rolled  her  in  her  wheeled  chair  to  the  table. 

The  venerable  Bridget  had  in  her  day  danced  barefooted 
on  many  a  door  taken  from  its  hinges  and  laid  down  on  the 
sod;  and  she  dated  back  to  the  time  when  the  pipers  were 
men  of  honor  and  glory.  She  had  seen  the  famine  rage 
and  the  dances  fall  under  the  ban  of  the  Church,  and  the 
pipers  become  outcast  and  vagabond.  She  had  seen  the 
better  times  come  back  and  the  pipers  once  more  lifting 
their  heads  and  the  Irish  language  flourishing  everywhere. 

Her  little  eyes  gleamed  like  liquid  coal  as  Michael  told 

123 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

of  his  dancing  prowess.  Kate  alone  was  indifferent;  she 
stood  near  the  window  and  every  passing  train  caught  her 
eyes  away  from  her  father's  account  of  the  numbers  of  old 
men  and  women  he  and  Delia  had  danced  to  death. 

"Och,  ma  honey,"  he  was  saying,  "I'd  rather  than  ten 
shillin'  you  were  there  last  night.  You're  younger  now 
than  that  old  Kate-hang-out-of-the-windy.  Come  away 
from  that,  Kate,  for  the  love  of  the  saints,  and  lave  the 
trains  go  by. 

"  Well,  ma,  everybody  admitted  I  was  the  best  man  there 
except  Dalia  here.  And  she  danced  something  outrageous. 
The  way  she  bobbed  to  the  cinter  in  the  sets  made  the 
other  women  look  like  rags.  She  had  their  hair  in  their 
eyes  and  their  combs  hoppin'  out  of  them  and  they 
sweatin'  like  thruck-horses  and  she  fresh  as  a  daisy. 
Her  heels  wint  kickin'  this  side  and  that  and  her  skirts 
flyin'  the  way  you'd  never  drame  she  was  mother  to  a 
priest. 

"But  at  that  it's  more  betther  to  be  dancin'  Irish 
ahl  night  than  doin'  them  scandalous  new  fangles — thim 
Castile  Wahks  and  lame  dooks  and  Swedish  movements 
that  they  was  dancin'  on  the  flure  below. 

"They  had  a  band  of  white  nagurs  poundin'  dhrums  on 
the  side  and  swattin'  gongs,  and  the  min  and  women 
wint  round  more  like  they  was  doin'  a  wrastlin'-match 
than  dancin'.  Kate,  if  you  don't  stop  starin'  out  that 
windy  I'll  smash  it  for  you.  Have  you  no  inth'rest  what- 
iver  in  your  father's  and  mother's  succiss?" 

"Oh  yes,  indeed  and  I  have  that,  pa,"  said  Kate,  trying 
to  shake  off  her  reverie  and  asking  a  question  to  prove 
her  absorption  in  their  experiences.  "And  who  made  the 
music  up-stairs  for  the  Irish  dancers?  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
McAvoy,  or  Mr.  Hennessey,  or  Mr.  Fitzpatrick,  or  who?" 

"It  was  none  of  thim,  but  a  new  piper.  I  don't  know 

124 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

the  name  of  'um,  a  shrimpeen  of  a  felly  he  was,  but  he 
could  squeege  the  win'  out  of  the  Union  pipes  the  way 
you'd  swayre  it  was  the  fairies  was  in  it.' 

"I  hate  the  pipes,"  said  Kate. 

Michael  whirled  on  her  with  a  gulping  sound: 

"What!" 

"Fiddles  and  flutes  are  all  right,"  Kate  went  on,  "but 
I  can't  abide  the  noise  of  a  pipe." 

"The  divil  blishter  us  all!"  Michael  roared.  "She 
hates  the  pipes,  she  says.  And  you  sayin'  she's  my  daugh 
ter.  She's  not  even  Irish.  She's  a — a  Portugoose  or  a 
Zulu!" 

Even  Delia  was  aghast  at  the  treason.  She  stared  at 
Kate  so  knowingly  that  she  saw  something  behind  the 
dark  look,  something  that  implied  more  than  a  musical 
criticism. 

"Lave  her  be,  Michael,"  she  murmured.  "It's  one 
of  her  headaches  is  on  her." 

Michael  turned  away  from  her  in  disdain  and  addressed 
his  mother  with  exaggerated  brightness: 

"Of  course,  he  was  as  nothin'  to  old  Killilea — the 
granduncle  of  Shane's  Moyna — you  remimber  him,  ma, 
belike?" 

"That  I  do,"  said  Bridget.  "He  was  a  young  bouchal 
whin  I  was  a  colleen.  He  played  at  manny 's  the  '  pattern ' 
I  danced  at.  He  played  at  the  weddin'  of  me  and  your 
poor  father — God  give  him  heaven  for  his  bed.  He  was 
blind,  too,  old  Killilea." 

"Most  pipers  used  to  be  blind  in  the  good  old  times," 
said  Michael.  "It  was  that  kept  me  from  takin'  up  the 
pipes  meself  whin  I  was  a  broth  of  a  boyo — that  and  the 
hard  they  are  for  to  be  learnin';  and  the  expinse  of  thim. 
After  seein'  Dalia  here,  I  had  no  wish  to  blow  me  eyes 
out  pipin'. 

125 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

"But  why  pipers  should  be  blind  I  d'know,  unless  it's 
the  win'  that  gets  in  their  faces  like.  I  niver  understood  it. 
Now  a  man  who  plays  the  war-pipes,  or  the  Scotch  bag 
pipes,  is  different.  I  could  understand  them  goin'  dark, 
for  they  keep  up  such  a  poofin'  and  blowin'  you'd  think 
they'd  whoof  the  eyeballs  out  of  their  heads.  But  at 
that  I  niver  saw  a  Scotch  bagpiper  blind.  But  the  betther 
part  of  the  Union  pipers  used  to  be  blind.  Old  Killilea 
was  a  dark  man  in  the  eyes." 

"Maybe,"  Delia  said,  "Union  pipers  was  blind  because 
they  was  blind  first  and  took  up  the  pipes  for  to  comfort 
themselves  with,  or  for  lack  of  other  thrades  to  work  at." 

Michael  glowered  at  her  admiringly.  "Now  it  would 
be  you  would  be  thinkin'  of  that !  Yous  women  is  foolish 
and  you  can't  keep  to  the  main  road  of  sinse  and  raison, 
but  now  and  thin  you  take  a  short  cut  and  stoomble  on 
the  trut'th  be  accidint.  Maybe  you  have  the  right  of  it, 
Dalia.  Yis,  I  do  belave  you  have." 

Kate  broke  in  unexpectedly,  "Was  the  piper  who  piped 
to  you  last  night  blind?"  There  was  a  trace  of  ill-sup 
pressed  excitement  in  her  voice. 

"No,  he  had  a  pair  of  eyes  in  him  would  outblink  a 
weasel." 

"And  his  name — did  you  say?" 

"No;  I  didn't  say.  His  name  is  a  thing  I  didn't  get. 
And  what's  it  to  you  what  his  name  is?  You  that  have 
no  likin'  for  pipin'."  He  turned  to  his  mother  again. 
"Somebody  said  he's  been  playin'  round  the  counthry 
dances  quite  regular  recent.  He  was  pipin'  for  the 
Ballinlough  Boys'  Social  Club  lasht  Saturda',  and  the 
Tuam  Social  Club  of  a  Winsda',  and  the  Manchester 
Martyrs'  Cilebration  the  week  before  that.  You  was  to 
the  County  Leitrim  Ladies'  dance,  Kate.  He  was  there. 
Did  you  not  see  him?" 

126 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

"I  didn't  go  into  the  Irish  room,"  said  Kate. 

"And  why  werrun't  you  at  the  dance  lasht  night, 
Katie?"  Bridget  asked. 

Kate  shook  her  head  and  Delia  explained: 

"Sure,  and  we  couldn't  boodge  her,  though  we  tried. 
She  niver  goes  to  dances — or  only  rayrely." 

Bridget's  little  eyes  widened.  "That's  strange,  Katie. 
Whin  you  come  over  to  see  me,  long  iver  ago,  I  could 
hardly  lay  eyes  on  you  for  the  dancin*  you  did.  I  very 
night  most  she  was  off  to  some  parish  patron  or  field  dance 
or  something.  There  was  a  lad  in  it,  of  coorse.  What 
was  his  name,  Katie?" 

Katie  answered  only  with  a  blush  of  rosiness  unseen  in 
her  cheeks  before.  Michael  and  Delia  stared  at  her  in 
credulously.  Bridget  rambled  on : 

"  He  left  home  about  the  same  time  with  you,  Kate.  I 
thought  it  would  be  he  was  follyin'  you  acrost  the  say. 
What  was  his  name,  now?  I  knew  his  mother.  She  died 
about  thin.  Who  was  she?  You  should  remimber  the 
name,  Katie?" 

"Oho!"  Michael  guffawed.  "So  Kate  had  a  lover! 
Aha,  she  was  human  once.  The  deceptionable  baggage 
she  is!" 

Delia  was  astounded:  "Why,  what  at  all?  Musha 
then !  Why,  Kate  my  darlin' !  and  what  happened  him 
that  you  niver  mintioned  his  name?" 

Kate  mumbled  in  a  low  tone:  "Grandma  is  wanderin'. 
She  remembers  things  all  twisted.  How  should  I  remem 
ber  the  foolish  things  I  did  as  a  girl?  I  may  have 
danced  over  there.  Prob'ly  I  did.  But  nobody  I  knew 
was  on  the  steamer  with  me.  Nobody  ever  wrote  me  a 
letter  in  all  these  years.  If  I'd  have  loved  any  lad, 
wouldn't  there  have  been  letters?  If  there'd  been  letters, 
wouldn't  you  have  seen  them?" 

127 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

Delia  nodded  and  Michael  looked  solemn.  But  they 
were  rather  baffled  than  convinced. 

Michael  put  Delia's  thoughts  into  his  own  words  when 
he  said: 

''You've  your  answer  ready,  Katie — and  there's  only 
wan  thing  the  matther  with  it,  and  that  is  there's 
nahthin'  the  matther  with  it.  It's  just  a  thrifle  too  per 
fect — like  yourself.  And  things  that's  too  perfect  isn't 
human  like.  So  come  and  tell  us  ahl  about  it." 

The  stolid  Kate  was  on  the  verge  of  an  outbreak. 
She  appealed  to  Delia  as  from  a  bullying  brother: 

"Ma,  you  better  make  him  quit  teasin'  me,  now." 

The  child-obeying  mother  rounded  on  the  so-called 
master  of  the  house: 

"Go  on  about  your  business,  Michael,  if  you  have  anny; 
the  clock's  been  starin'  at  you  this  half-hour.  Or  have 
you  settled  down  to  be  an  ould  woman  with  the  rest  of  us 
and  nothin'  to  do  but  sit  in  a  chair  and  mind  annybody's 
business  but  your  own?  Go  alahng  now,  or  I'll  put  the 
broom  acrost  your  lazy  shoulthers!" 

Michael  turned  to  his  own  mother.  "Ma,  are  you 
goin'  to  set  there  and  lave  thim  two  ould  hags  pick  on 
your  little  son?" 

Bridget  knew  the  art  of  being  a  mother-in-law,  and  she 
laughed : 

"Michaeleen,  you  quit  out  of  where  you're  not  wanted, 
or  I'll  take  you  over  me  own  knee." 

Michael  was  pouting  like  a  spankable  boy  as  he  took 
his  hat  and  coat  and  sulked  away  to  his  office. 

The  two  women  turned  to  Kate  with  hungry  curiosity, 
but  she  went  into  her  own  room  and  busied  herself  with 
making  up  her  spinstral  cell. 

A  few  days  later,  after  the  noon  dinner,  when  Delia 
and  Kate  had  carried  away  from  the  table  the  dishes 

128 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

they  had  set  out  on  it  with  the  same  thrice-daily  ritual  they 
had  used  for  years,  Kate  went  to  the  window  and  raised 
it,  though  the  day  was  none  too  warm. 

Up  and  down  the  trestles  the  elevated  trains  went 
rumbling,  watched  by  thousands  of  others  in  the  elbow 
colony  along  the  tracks.  A  few  of  the  gayer  passengers 
on  the  platforms  attempted  to  start  the  briefest  imaginable 
flirtations  with  Kate  and  waved  to  her  or  lifted  their 
hats  with  ironic  courtesy.  But  Kate  regarded  them  with 
blank  indifference. 

Delia  looked  at  her  sadly  and  shook  her  head  over  the 
lonely  old  thing  she  was,  and  the  undercurrent  of  sorrow 
that  was  somehow  different  from  the  abundant  sorrows 
of  wives  and  mothers.  The  pity  of  it  seemed  to  be  that 
Kate  had  never  known  these  anguishes.  They  are  the 
only  griefs  that  mothers  do  not  pray  Heaven  to  spare  their 
daughters. 

Suddenly  Delia  saw  Kate's  broad  back  waver;  she  saw 
her  elbows  leave  the  sill  and  her  hands  reach  out  into 
space  as  if  to  clutch  at  something.  A  train  was  booming 
past,  but  Delia  felt  sure  that  Kate  was  shouting  something 
to  somebody  borne  by. 

She  lunged  so  rashly  outward  that  Delia  ran  and  seized 
her  about  the  waist  and  hauled  her  into  the  room,  yelling 
in  the  abrupt  stillness  left  by  the  vanished  train : 

"Have  you  turned  disthracted  entirely?'' 

Kate  tore  her  mother's  hands  loose  with  unfilial  vigor 
and  darted  back  to  the  window,  shrieking: 

"Oh,  he's  gone!    He's  gone!" 

Delia  dragged  her  away  once  more,  while  the  passengers 
on  another  train  stared  and  wondered  at  the  scene,  and  old 
Bridget  rose  from  her  chair  and  tottered  forward  in  panic. 

"Who's  gone?  And  where  gone?"  Delia  shouted. 
"The  saints  be  among  us,  but  it's  you  that's  gone." 

129 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

Kate  flung  her  arms  about  her  mother  and  began  to  sob : 

"And  all  the  years  I've  watched  and  waited!" 

Bridget  sank  into  the  nearest  chair  and  whispered  what 
Delia  howled: 

"Who's  gone?    Who  were  you  waitin'  for?' 

But  Kate  wept  in  a  storm  till  Delia's  curiosity  changed 
to  anxiety  and  she  began  to  soothe  her  like  a  child  in 
convulsions  with  many  a  "Hush!  whist!  child  jewel! 
Och,  avourneen!  Shoo!  shoo!" 

She  led  Kate  to  a  chair,  where  Bridget  and  she  caressed 
her  and  gave  her  salts  to  smell  and  wet  a  cup  of  tea  for 
her  and  finally  had  her  facing  the  world  again  with  some 
thing  of  her  old-time  calm. 

And  at  last,  though  they  forbore  to  question  her,  she 
answered  their  devouring  need  with  an  explanation: 

"You  know,  ma,  how  I've  watched  at  the  window  so 
long?" 

"It's  little  else  I  know,"  said  Delia. 

"You've  all  made  sport  of  it,  and  a  joke  it's  been  to 
pa.  But  no  joke  to  me,  I  tell  you  that,  for  I've  always 
been  hoping  that  some  day  he  would  go  by  on  the  street 
or  on  the  elevated  trains.  So  many,  many  people  are 
forever  passin',  I  felt  in  my  soul  some  day  he  would  go 
by,  too." 

"He— he?"  said  Delia.     "What  he?" 

"When  pa  sent  me  over  to  Ireland  to  visit  you,  grand 
ma,  I  was  only  a  little  young  slip  of  a  girl,  but  we  loved 
each  other  at  the  first  glimpse  like." 

"We— we?"  Delia  repeated,  like  a  refrain.  "And 
who's  we?" 

"Floyd  O'Gara  and  me." 

"Of  the  O'Garas  across  the  hill ?"  said  Bridget.  "  That's 
the  name  I  was  try  in'  for  to  say  the  other  mornin'." 

' '  The  same, ' '  said  Kate.  ' '  Some  of  the  others  made  fun 

130 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

of  me  for  my  New  York  ways  and  clothes,  and  called  me 
the  Yankee,  and  said  I  was  stuck  up,  but  Floyd  O'Gara 
told  them  what  he  thought  of  them,  and  that  it  was  no 
fault  of  mine  being  born  out  in  the  States,  and  that  they 
were  only  jealous  of  me  and  my  dancin'. 

"Then  they  turned  on  him  and  called  him  out  of  his 
name.  At  that  the  pipers  were  in  disfavor  still,  and  his 
father  had  broken  the  first  set  of  pipes  Floyd  bought  with 
his  own  hard  earnings,  for  his  father  said  it  was  a  disgrace 
to  the  family.  But  Floyd  had  the  music  in  him  and  he 
had  bought  him  new  ones  and  begun  to  earn  good  money 
pipin'  for  all  the  dances  and  weddin's  round  about. 

"So  when  they  began  for  to  pick  on  me — you  see 
Floy  die  had  taken  a  kindness  to  me  from  the  start,  and 
he  told  them  that  he  wouldn't  play  for  them  whatever 
till  they  learned  better  manners.  And  they  laughed  and 
said  little  they  cared. 

"So  for  a  while  he  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  pay 
attentions  to  me,  and  he  would  pipe  for  me  alone,  and 
I  danced  for  him  alone,  and  he  piped  the  heart  out  of  me. 
And  he  said  I  was  dancin'  on  the  heart  of  him  under  my 
feet.  And  by  and  by  the  others  crep'  up  to  listen,  and 
they  grew  that  heartsick  for  dancin'  to  his  music,  they 
begged  him  would  he  forgive  them,  and  we  patched  it  up, 
and  the  whole  village  of  Lisdoonvarna  was  friends  again. 

"Only  Floyd,  for  all  he  loved  to  see  me  dance,  couldn't 
abide  seein'  me  dance  with  any  of  the  other  garsoons  and 
he  pipin'.  So  we  quarreled,  for  I  was  young  and  wanted 
to  dance  with  all  the  lads,  and  I  didn't  prize  his  jealousy. 

"It  was  a  fool's  quarrel,  but  never  a  chance  had  we  to 
make  it  up.  For  after  a  week  of  not  speakin'  I  had  to 
take  the  boat  home.  Once  I  was  out  on  the  lonesome 
sea,  my  pride  broke  in  me.  I  wrote  him  a  long,  long 
letter,  tellin'  him  I  was  in  the  wrong  and  I  would  dance 

10  131 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

only  for  him  and  with  nobody  else.  The  letter  never 
came  back  to  me.  He'd  gone  away  to  South  Africa  or 
Australia.  I  learned  it  from  a  girl  came  out  later  on 
another  ship;  she  said  nobody  knew  where  he  went,  for 
his  mother  died  about  that  time. 

"I  began  watchin'  for  him,  always  hopin'  he'd  come  to 
New  York.  Such  millions  come  here,  and  go  by  our 
window.  Why  wouldn't  Floyd?  I  was  always  afraid  he 
would  be  on  the  train  I  didn't  see.  Sometimes  I've  sat 
all  night  at  my  window  watchin' — watchin'. " 

Delia  and  Bridget  had  sat  out  the  long  story  like  watch 
ers  beside  a  coffin,  shaking  their  heads  and  pursing  their 
lips  with  sympathy. 

"You  creature,  you,"  Delia  moaned.  "I'm  destroyed 
wit' sorrow  for  you;  and  I  never  knew !  And  we  ahlways 
jokin'  at  you." 

"Just  now — he  went  by!"  said  Kate,  sopping  her  wet 
cheeks. 

"The  saints  be  among  us,  no  wonder  you  were  for 
leppin'  out  on  the  train!" 

"Floyd  was  standin'  on  the  platform.  He's  no  longer 
the  lad  he  was,  but  I  knew  him.  And  he  saw  me,  and 
I  waved  to  him — and  he  stared  hard,  then  he  waved  to 
me.  He  waved  to  me,  and  I  could  see  by  the  look  in  his 
eyes  he  knew  me.  And  he'd  forgiven  me.  He  was  that 
hungry  to  see  me,  he  nearly  climbed  over  the  gates." 

"But  why  is  it  cryin',  not  laughin'  you  are?"  said 
Delia.  "You've  found  him  and  he's  found  you." 

"But  we  haven't  found  each  other!"  Kate  screamed. 
"He's  gone  once  more.  I've  lost  him  again." 

"As  if  he  wouldn't  be  gettin'  off  at  the  next  station 
and  runnin'  back  to  you?  Listen!  I  think  I  hear  him 
just  goin'  to  ring  the  door-bell." 

"But  it  was  an  express  train!  It  won't  stop  till  it  gets 

132 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

to  a  Hundred  and  Twenty-fi'th  Street.  That's  miles 
away.  He  won't  know  the  house.  They're  all  so  much 
alike  along  here.  Oh,  I'd  rather  not  have  seen  him  again 
if  it's  only  to  be  losin'  him." 

Old  Bridget  put  her  lean  hand  on  hers  and  murmured: 

"Be  aisy  on  hope  and  be  aisy  on  despair  is  a  good 
motto,  my  lanna.  There's  plinty  of  ways  of  findin'  the 
daughter  of  Michael  Morahan.  Let  him  ask  anny  po 
liceman.  But  if  you  find  him  he  may  not  be  free.  It's 
not  likely  he's  stayed  an  old  maid  like  you.  Maybe  he 
was  on  the  way  home  to  his  wife." 

Kate  writhed  at  this  as  if  a  javelin  had  been  hurled 
through  her  body. 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!  It  wouldn't  come  out  so  cruel 
after  these  years,  could  it?" 

"It's  a  crool  world,  agra,"  Bridget  murmured,  "and 
there's  no  sweet  but  has  its  bitther,  though  there's  manny's 
the  bitther  that  has  no  sweet." 

Perhaps  in  her  ancient  wisdom  Bridget  knew  that  the 
best  way  for  the  old  to  encourage  the  young  is  to  croak 
to  them  despair.  They  resist  automatically  whatever  is 
imposed  on  them  and  fly  to  the  other  extreme.  So  while 
Bridget  prated  against  hope,  Kate  took  fire  from  the 
friction  and  cried : 

"I'm  goin'  to  keep  watch  till  he  comes  by  again.  He's 
livin',  he's  in  America,  he's  in  New  York,  he's  on  this 
street!  He'll  come  back — I  know  he  will!" 

And  old  Bridget  gave  her  for  a  benediction : 

"Heaven  shine  on  your  soul  and  bring  you  your  heart  s 
hope;  you've  supped  sorrow  with  the  spoon  of  grief  the 
long  while.  Sure  and  that  you  have!" 

One  thing  Kate  demanded  with  a  peremptoriness  new 
to  her.  She  had  authority  already,  for  she  was  a  woman 
like  others,  with  a  love  story  and  a  man  on  the  horizon. 

133 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

"Not  one  word  of  this  to  pa  or  the  boys  or  anybody. 
I  might  lose  him  before  I  found  him.  What  grandma  says 
may  be  truth,  that  he  has  a  wife  and  was  going  home  to 
her.  And  children  he  might  have — her  children!" 

But  she  determined  to  give  Floyd  every  chance,  and  she 
rolled  a  chair  up  to  the  window  and  established  herself 
there.  All  afternoon  she  played  sentinel,  her  head  turn 
ing  this  way  and  that  to  follow  every  car,  and  craning  out 
to  keep  the  street  under  espionage.  The  sky  gloomed 
and  glowed  with  the  sunset.  The  people  on  the  trains 
grew  vaguer  and  duller  and  they  all  looked  alike.  The 
windows  had  lights  in  them.  The  sparse  crowds  of  the 
afternoon  thickened  on  the  upward  trains  till  the  people 
were  squeezed  into  a  kind  of  human  jelly.  Still  Kate 
watched. 

When  Michael  came  home  for  supper  he  found  Delia 
setting  the  table  and  Kate  playing  the  Lady  of  Shalott  at 
the  window. 

Michael  insisted  on  knowing  the  cause  of  such  behavior 
and  Delia  answered : 

"Hould  your  whist  or  go  away  somewhere.  Haven't 
you  a  meeting  of  the  Friendly  Sons  or  the  Knights  of 
Columbus  or  some  committee  or  something?" 

For  a  wonder  Michael  had  no  excuse  for  leaving  home 
that  evening.  In  fact,  he  was  expecting  a  call  from  John 
Giluley,  his  friend  and  landlord,  who  was  urging  a  real- 
estate  investment  on  him. 

When  Giluley  came  he  wondered  at  the  open  window 
and  Kate  ensconced  there.  He  shivered  a  little  and  with 
doubtful  altruism  advised  Katie  to  look  out  or  she'd  catch 
cold. 

When  the  window  in  front  of  Kate  could  not  be  hinted 
down  he  sneezed  and  suggested : 

"  Maybe  we  might  go  in  the  pairlor?" 

134 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

So  he  and  Michael  left  the  comfortable  dining-room  and 
went  into  the  uncomfortable  parlor. 

Michael  had  to  go  through  the  dining-room  to  the  ice 
box  of  hospitality  several  times  in  the  effort  to  make  the 
parlor  more  comfortable.  On  one  of  the  trips  Kate  had 
another  attack  of  excitement.  She  stretched  herself  prone 
across  the  sill  and  shrieked  wildly  well : 

"Floyd!    Floyd  avic!    Here!— here!" 

"Here  yourself!"  cried  Michael.  He  rushed  to  her, 
grabbed  her  heels,  and  restored  them  to  the  floor,  where 
an  old  maid's  heels  belong. 

"Leave  go!  Leave  go!"  Kate  cried,  fighting  so  hard 
that  Michael  could  hardly  hold  her. 

Delia  ran  in  from  the  kitchen,  and  when  Michael 
called  to  her  for  help  she  also  attacked  him,  commanding: 
"Lave  her  loose!  Lave  her  loose!"  so  loudly  that  Giluley 
came  running  in. 

Michael  reasoned  with  Delia:  "Can't  you  see  it's  a 
fit  she  has !  Get  me  a  rope  and  a  docther,  quick !  Troth, 
she  was  yellin'  the  way  she'd  rise  the  police." 

But  Delia  and  Kate  outfought  him,  and  Kate  ran  back 
to  the  window  and  leaned  out  farther  than  ever,  shouting 
louder  than  before,  "I'll  be  down  there  in  half  a  minute." 

"You'll  be  down  there  a  dom'  sight  quicker  than  that," 
said  Michael,  seizing  her  again.  "Is  it  ippilipsy  she  has, 
or  hydrophoby?  I  don't  know.  She'll  be  frothing  at  the 
mouth  anny  minyute  now." 

John  Giluley  had  an  idea. 

"Try  her  with  a  glass  of  water  would  she  run  from  it. 
If  she  does,  it's  the  ginuine  hydrophoby." 

He  turned  to  the  faithful  pitcher  on  the  sideboard,  and, 
filling  a  glass,  held  it  out  to  Kate  from  as  far  as  his  arm 
would  reach. 

Kate  was  just  leaving  the  window.    She  gave  the  water 

135 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

a  glance,  knocked  the  glass  aside,  and  ran  from  the  room. 
Giluley  damply  answered  his  own  questions. 

"She  did  it!    She  has  it!" 

Michael  was  about  to  pursue  the  flying  Kate  when 
Delia  checked  him  and,  bidding  him  and  his  guest  sit 
down,  recounted  the  whole  story.  There  was  time  enough 
for  that  and  for  Michael's  "I-told-you-so's." 

"But  what  keeps  them  so  long  gone?"  he  wondered. 

"Och!"  said  Delia.  "They  put  hard  words  on  each 
other;  it's  years  ago;  they'll  need  manny  soft  words  to 
make  up  for  them.  They're  lingerin'  on  them  long  stairs, 
belike,  thinkin'  it's  a  lane  in  Lisdoonvarna." 

Mr.  Giluley's  only  comment  was  a  sneeze  and  a  sugges 
tion: 

"Maybe  we  might  close  the  windy  now?" 

Michael  closed  the  window.  At  last  Kate  came  shyly  in, 
but  alone.  A  terrible  fear  froze  the  parents'  hearts,  beat 
ing  for  once  as  one. 

"Did  you  lose  'um?"  Michael  gasped. 

Katie  chuckled.  "No,  I  have  him  outside.  We've 
made  up,  ma!" 

"Have  you,  now?    Then  have  him  in." 

"He's  afraid,"  Kate  said,  like  a  shy  little  girl. 

Michael  did  not  fancy  her  in  the  role,  nor  timidity  as 
her  lover's  first  trait. 

"What's  he  afraid  of?"  he  growled. 

"Of  you  and  ma,"  Kate  simpered,  with  belated  foolish 
ness.  "He's  afraid  you  won't  give  your  consent." 

"Small  danger  of  our  refusin'  that,"  said  Michael,  not 
realizing  the  violence  of  the  language  till  the  words  were 
out.  He  redeemed  himself  handsomely.  "I'll  not  give 
vou  up,  Kate,  to  anny  one  who  isn't  a  fine  man." 

"Floyd's  a  fine  man,"  said  Kate.  "He's  traveled  the 
whole  world  since  we  quarreled.  He  went  first  to  China, 

136 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

but  for  the  most  part  it  was  Australia  he  was  in.  He's 
had  adventures  would  make  your  blood  run  cold,  but  he 
says  he  never  got  over  lovin'  me.  And  he  wants  to  marry 
me.  May  he,  ma,  please?  Can  I,  pa,  please?" 

She  looked  as  if  she  were  a  child  again,  asking  for  a  bit 
of  sugar  on  her  slice  of  the  bread  of  life. 

"I'll  not  consint  till  I  see  him,  I  tell  you,"  Michael 
growled,  to  keep  from  crying.  "For  ahl  your  tahk  of 
Chiny  and  Austhralia,  what  proof  have  I  that  there  is 
such  a  man?" 

"Oh,  there  is!"  Kate  answered,  with  a  swagger. 

"And  what  business  is  he  in?" 

"I  never  asked  him  that,"  said  Kate.  "That  would  be 
a  nice  thing  to  ask,  now,  wouldn't  it?  You  can  ask  him." 

Michael  and  Kate  would  have  been  glad  to  be  rid  of 
Mr.  Giluley,  but  there  he  was,  and  when  he  said,  "I'd 
betther  be  shankin'  on  home,"  they  had  to  insist  on  his 
staying.  They  were  bracing  themselves  to  receive  Kate's 
sole  wooer,  this  wondrous  being  who  had  held  a  woman's 
heart  captive  for  fourteen  years. 

The  preparation  offered  a  splendid  entrance  for  six  feet 
of  hero,  but  it  was  a  good  deal  of  fanfare  for  the  frightened 
little  brindle  that  Kate  brought  into  the  dining-room. 
His  head  hardly  reached  her  shoulder  and  he  had  wild 
hair  and  fidgety  ways  with  his  feet  and  hands. 

Michael  and  Delia  groaned  inwardly,  and  Giluley  felt 
the  mixture  of  sympathy  and  triumph  that  we  feel  for  our 
neighbors'  mishaps. 

Kate,  however,  was  so  dazed  with  rapture  that  she 
assumed  her  treasure  trove  to  be  as  beautiful  in  all  other 
eyes  as  he  was  in  hers.  She  presented  him  with  as  much 
pomp  as  if  he  had  been  Apollo: 

"Ma,  this  is  Mr.  Floyd  O'Gara.  Floyd,  this  is  my 
mother — our  mother." 

137 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

At  this  last  Delia  nearly  withdrew  the  timid  hand  she 
was  putting  out,  but  Mr.  O'Gara  seized  it  and  clung  to 
it,  and  Delia  did  her  best. 

"Our  mother?  Already?  Well,  annyhow,  you're 
heartily  welcome,  Mr.  O'Gara,  for  Kate's  sake.  She's 
told  us  all  about  you." 

"And  has  she,  now?"  said  Mr.  O'Gara,  with  a  kind  of 
small  barking  sound. 

Delia  turned  to  her  husband.  "Michael,  this  is  Mr. 
O'Gara.  Mr.  O'Gara,  this  is  Katie's  father." 

Michael  put  out  his  hand  and  spoke  in  his  most  ponder 
ous  tones: 

"How  air  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  iligant  and  grand,  I  thank  you  kindly,"  piped 
Mr.  O'Gara. 

Michael  tried  to  be  brave  and  console  himself  at  least 
with  the  brogue. 

"Well,  he's  no  dago,  annyhow,"  he  said.  "So  you're 
the  absentee  that's  been  takin'  up  all  Kate's  time." 

"And  have  I,  now?"  said  Mr.  O'Gara. 

"Indeed,  and  hasn't  she  been  settin'  by  that  windy 
watchin'  for  you  till  she's  almost  wore  the  sill  off?" 

"And  has  she,  now?"  said  Floyd,  and  stared  with 
idolatry  at  Kate,  who  worshiped  him  with  a  look. 

Michael  and  Delia  were  plainly  so  depressed  that 
Mr.  Giluley  had  the  decency  to  rise  and  take  him 
self  home.  Delia  and  Michael  went  to  the  door  with 
him.  It  made  an  easy  excuse  for  a  few  words  to 
gether. 

When  they  had  put  out  Giluley  they  turned  to  each 
other  with  the  same  thought.  Michael  spoke  it: 

"Poor  Kate!  and  that's  what  she's  waited  for!  That 
little  shriveled  sprissawn  of  a  maneen.  I  wouldn't  have 
him  for  a  toby  on  the  mantelpiece." 

138 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Be  slow  about  breakin' Kate's  heart  in  her,"  said  Delia, 
miserably.  "Betther  ask  him  what  business  he's  in." 

"I  don't  care  what  his  business  is.  I  wouldn't  have 
him  round  the  place.  Sure  and  what  did  they  do  to  him 
in  Austhralia?  They  condinsed  him,  that's  what  they 
done.  And  what's  this,  now?" 

In  the  hall  on  the  complicated  hat-rack,  umbrella- 
stand,  mirror,  and  table  was  Mr.  O'Gara's  hat  and  a 
large,  long,  green  baize  bag. 

"What's  this?"  said  Michael.  "It  looks  like  a  set  of 
pipes!" 

He  massaged  the  cloth  and  finally  opened  it  slyly. 
He  exclaimed: 

"It  is  a  set  of  pipes.  I  wonder  doos  he  play  them? 
If  he  doos,  there's  more  to  him  than  you'd  think  at  a 
glance.  I  couldn't  learn  them  myself;  they  stoomped  me 
complately  whin  I  was  young,  and  afraid  of  nahthin',  too." 

He  paused  and  rubbed  his  jaw  in  thought  and  frowned 
again. 

"But  he's  prob'ly  only  shtole  them  off  somebody,  or 
borried  them  to  be  learnin'  on  them.  He'd  betther  be 
attindin'  to  his  business,  if  he  has  anny,  and  not  wasthin' 
his  time  on  what's  beyond  him.  I'll  ask  him  can  he  play 
thim,  and  have  the  thruth  out  of  him.  But  don't  let  on 
we've  been  inspectin'  his  kit." 

They  went  back  to  the  dining-room.  As  Michael 
opened  the  door  Floyd  O'Gara  made  such  a  quick  escape 
from  Kate's  immediate  vicinity  that  Michael  dragged 
Delia  back  into  the  hall  to  say: 

"  Did  you  see  the  fine  standin'  lep  he  took!  He  learned 
that  from  the  kangyroos,  belike.  I  misdoubt  his  arms 
was  around  Katie's  waist — as  far  as  they'd  reach." 

Delia  sighed  deliciously:  "It's  a  quare  sinsation,  hap- 
penin'  in  on  Katie  spoonin'  with  a  stranger." 

139 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

But  Michael  had  more  important  news: 

"I've  just  had  a  suspicion.  That  Floyd  O'Gara  in 
there  might  be  the  very  same  shrimpeen  piped  for  us 
at  the  Lady  Hurlers'  bahl." 

"No?" 

"Yis!" 

"The  saints  be  among  us!" 

"I'm  sure,  but  I'm  not  certain  sure.  And  now  instead 
of  askin'  him  can  he  play,  I'll  ask  him  will  he." 

After  a  premonitory  clearing  of  throats  the  guilty  old 
spies  returned  to  the  dining-room,  where  Floyd  and  Kate 
were  blushing  like  mad  some  distance  apart. 

Michael  and  Delia  sat  down  and  felt  themselves  very 
much  unwelcome,  but  necessary.  They  mentioned  the 
usual  topics  of  people  who  don't  know  what  to  say, 
and  finally  Michael  led  up  to  what  he  was  leading  up  to. 

"Was  you,  be  anny  chance,  to  the  Clare  Lady  Hurlers' 
last  Saturday,  Mr.  O'Gara?" 

"Well,  yis,  I—" 

"You  wern't  the  gintleman  done  the  pipin',  were  you?" 

"Well,  yis,  I—" 

"I  thought  I  reco'nized  you  and  I'm  proud  to  meet 
you."  He  rose  part  way  and  put  out  his  hand.  Floyd 
O'Gara,  greatly  flustered,  took  it  with  enthusiasm.  Kate 
almost  expired  in  a  rush  of  pride  to  the  heart.  Michael 
sat  back  again. 

"I  don't  know  whin  I've  heard  pipes  piped  betther 
than  you  piped  thim." 

"And  don't  you,  now?"  said  Floyd. 

"Do  you  pipe  about  much?" 

"Yis,  I  keep  busy  evenings,  and  I  take  pupils  day 
times." 

Kate  spoke  up:  "You  didn't  pipe,  Floydeen,  did  you, 
at  the  Leitrim  Ladies'?" 

140 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"Yis,  I  did.  I  piped  there.  It  was  a  month  back. 
Why?" 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  Kate,  as  if  she  would  swoon. 

"Why,  what  at  all  now!"  Delia  gasped. 

Tears  began  to  patter  on  Kate's  cheeks  and  breast 
and  knees.  And  her  mouth  crinkled  as  she  sobbed: 

"I  was  at  that  dance.  And  people  asked  me  to  go  into 
the  Irish  room,  and  I  wouldn't.  Had  I  gone,  I'd  have 
seen  you  there,  and  a  month  of  sorrow  would  have  been 
a  month  of  joy." 

"But  why  would  you  not  go  to  the  Irish  music?" 
Floyd  asked,  amazed. 

"Since  you  piped  to  me,  I've  never  been  able  for 
standin'  the  sound  of  it.  And  I  wouldn't  go  with  pa  to 
the  Lady  Hurlers'  for  the  same  reason.  Oh  dear;  oh 
dear!  When  we  run  away  from  sorrow  we  never  know 
what  else  we're  runnin'  from." 

Michael  frowned  on  O'Gara  for  the  vain  suffering  of 
his  daughter's  wasted  life.  "And  now,  Mr.  O'Gara,  why 
was  it  you  never  tried  for  to  find  Kate  all  these  years?" 

Floyd  was  frightened  by  his  manner  and  hastened  to 
explain : 

"Who  was  I  to  be  thinkin*  that  Katie  would  be  re- 
mimberin'  me  all  this  while?  She  wint  away  without 
a  word,  and  it  is  only  a  few  months  I  come  to  this  coun- 
thry,  and  for  ahl  I  was  perishin'  to  see  her,  I  naturally 
supposed  that  a  colleen  like  what  she  was  would  have 
been  snapped  up  by  a  dozen  min  long  ever  ago." 

"What,  do  you  think  she  is?  a  Mormon?"  said  Michael. 
"But  it's  not  likely  yourself  has  not  been  married  ahl 
this  while?" 

Floyd  blushed,  his  hair  almost  afire  as  he  shook  his 
head  and  mumbled: 

"I  won't  say  I  haven't  tried  to  be,  but  I  thank  me  patron 

141 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

saint  the  women  I  thought  I  wanted  was  sure  they  didn't 
want  me.  Heaven  was  savin'  me  for  Kate,  and  Kate  for 
me.  So  we've  decided  not  to  waste  anny  more  time." 

He  and  Kate  exchanged  glances  of  such  excruciating 
ecstasy  that  Michael  said  to  Delia : 

"Whin  I  was  a  lad,  the  old  folks  used  to  be  consulted 
before  a  match  was  made.  But  now  it  seems  parents 
is  insulted  instead." 

"Why,  pa!"  Kate  gasped. 

"Michael!"  Delia  scolded.  "Whist  and  bad  manners 
to  you  for  sp'akin'  so  to  a  guest." 

"I  can  be  as  polite  to  a  guest  as  the  nixt  man,  but 
whin  it  comes  to  a  son-in-law  I  have  a  mind  to  have  a 
word  to  say.  Howaniver,  I  know  my  place,  and  I'll  go 
to  bed — if  so  be  I'm  permitted  to  sleep  here." 

The  women  regarded  him  with  stupefaction  and  Floyd 
O'Gara  was  ready  to  leap  through  Kate's  window,  but 
Delia  motioned  him  to  sit  still  and  said  to  the  departing 
Michael : 

"Aye,  take  yourself  off  to  bed,  you  ould  line.  You've 
got  another  sore  toot'th,  I'm  thinkin'." 

Michael  had  not  meant  to  make  a  real  exit,  but  he 
was  committed  to  it  and  he  could  not  think  how  to  change 
his  mind  gracefully.  He  was  doubly  surly  as  he  slammed 
the  door  of  his  own  room  and  slumped  into  a  chair. 

Floyd  O'Gara  rose  to  go,  and  Kate  was  in  too  much 
dismay  to  keep  him,  so  Delia  hastened  to  use  her  wits. 

"I  saw  a  set  of  pipes  on  the  hahl-tree,  Mr.  O'Gara." 

"And  did  you,  now?" 

"Would  it  be  askin'  too  much  to  ask  would  you  let 
us  hear  you  use  them?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  would  disturb  Himself,"  said  Floyd, 
cravenly. 

"Pay  no  heed  to  him,"  said  Delia.  "It's  my  ears 

142 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

are  starved  for  a  taste  of  them.  I'd  greatly  fancy  to  hear 
you." 

"And  would  you,  now?  Sure,  half  the  success  of 
music  is  the  audience  wishin'  for  to  hear  it.  I'll  have  the 
pipes  out  and  give  you  a  toon  or  two." 

He  went  to  the  hall  and  brought  the  instrument  back 
in  his  arms  as  if  it  were  an  only  child.  He  unswaddled 
it,  strapped  the  bellows  under  his  right  arm  and  about  his 
body,  nursed  the  bag  in  his  left  arm,  and  set  the  chanter 
on  his  right  knee,  fingering  the  holes  in  it  with  his  left 
hand,  and  laid  the  drones  and  regulators  across  his  right 
thigh. 

After  a  few  preliminary  croaks  and  tootles,  and  a 
flourish  of  curls  and  crans,  he  looked  up  to  say: 

"And  now  what  would  you  have — an  air  or  a  dance?" 

"Some  ould  air,"  sighed  Delia.  "I  don't  suppose  you 
remimber  'The  Little  Heathy  Hill'  or  'Raking  Paudheen 
Rue'?" 

"And  don't  you,  now?  Do  you  think  I'm  not  Irish 
at  ahl?" 

He  played  for  her  the  sorrowful  old  tunes  that  brought 
the  wet  to  her  eyes  and  to  Kate's.  And  the  door  to 
Michael's  room  had  a  look  as  if  some  one  were  leaning  an 
ear  against  it.  It  seemed  to  shake  tenderly.  Then 
Floyd  played  a  kind  of  plaintive  jig  that  Kate  alone  re 
membered.  Floyd  had  composed  it  for  her  during  the 
time  of  war  when  he  would  play  for  no  one  else.  Kate 
seemed  to  see  herself  flinging  her  slim  body  and  her  bright 
bare  feet  in  girlish  frenzy.  It  was  long  ever  ago,  but  more 
vivid  than  anything  else  in  the  room  or  in  the  world. 
And  Floyd  saw  her,  too,  as  she  was  and  would  be  forever 
in  his  soul. 

He  broke  away  from  melodious  regrets  into  one  of  the 
great  bard  O'Carolan's  plangsties. 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Now  the  bedroom  door  began  to  quiver  mysteriously. 
Delia  kept  an  anxious  eye  on  it,  and  finally  she  whispered : 

"You  don't  chance  to  know  'Crabs  in  the  Skillet'  or 
'Shins  Around  the  Fireside/  do  you?" 

"And  don't  I,  now?" 

He  began  to  skirl.  The  bedroom  door  shivered,  then 
flew  open,  and  Michael  issued,  dancing  likea  jumping-jack. 
He  brought  his  feet  down  with  a  slapping,  clicking  rhythm 
that  must  have  startled  the  people  below.  But  little  he 
cared.  Floyd  kept  reiterating  the  tune  till  Michael  was 
breathless  and  sank  into  a  chair,  gasping : 

"You  have  the  advantage  on  me  with  that  bellows 
under  your  airm  there.  Me  own  is  bushted.  But  once 
I  used  to  batther  so  tidy  a  clog  to  that,  it  was  the  piper 
and  not  me  that  gave  out.  Do  you  remimber,  ma?" 

Old  Bridget  had  risen  from  her  bed.  She  stood  in  the 
doorway  in  her  nightgown,  and  a  petticoat  she  had  caught 
up  in  the  dark  for  a  shawl.  She  laughed  shrilly: 

"Aye,  Michaeleen,  you  bet  the  flag  of  the  fire  to  bits 
wit'  your  jiggin'.  The  ould  cracks  in  the  stone  was  there 
whin  you  sint  for  me  out.  And  time  was  I  could  do  me 
own  share  of  cloggin'  with  the  rest  of  them." 

Floyd  was  almost  popping  with  his  unexpected  glory, 
and  Kate  was  pouring  tears  into  the  broad  laughter  of 
her  mouth.  Then  Michael,  frowning  savagely,  beckoned 
Delia  into  their  room,  and  said  with  a  kind  of  apologetic 
ferocity: 

"I  been  thinkin'  maybe  we've  been  doin'  Floydie  an 
injoosthice." 

" We !"  Delia  gasped.  "You  ould  line,  you !  And  is  the 
toot'th  out?" 

Michael  grinned  evasively.  "Maybe  Katie  has  picked 
a  good  one,  afther  ahl.  It  wouldn't  be  so  bad  havin'  a 
man  about  the  house  to  pull  the  heart  out  of  thim  blessed 

144 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

tubes  now  and  thin.  It  would  save  docthors'  bills. 
And  it  would  bate  ahl  the  piannies  and  victhrolys  in  the 
worruld.  In  the  older  times,  whin  my  people  was  kings 
in  Ireland,  we  used  to  have  aich  of  us  his  own  piper  for 
to  play  to  him  thin — like  David  done  to  Saulomon — or 
whoiver  the  divil  it  was.  It's  what  us  Morahans  used  to 
be  used  to." 

Delia  was  glowing,  too.  "It  would  be  plisant,  when 
coompany  was  in,  to  say,  '  Katie,  ask  your  husband  would 
he  oblige  the  guests  with  a — '" 

But  Michael  was  back  in  the  room,  where  Bridget  was 
cowering  by  the  steam  radiator  asking  Mr.  O'Gara  if  he 
could  play  "Spatther  the  Dew."  He  said  he  could  and 
was  just  pumping  up  for  it  when  Michael  broke  in  with  a 
terrifying  severity: 

"Mr.  O'Gara,  you've  kept  my  daughter  Katie  waitin' 
on  you  some  fourteen  years  now.  I  don't  know  the 
cushtoms  in  Austhralia,  but  it's  a  lahng  ingagemint  for 
our  family.  Have  you  or  have  you  not  anny  intintions  of 
havin'  the  banns  called,  and  if  not  why  not?  and  if  so — 
whin?" 

"What  would  you  say  to  next  Soonda'?"  said  Mr. 
O'Gara.  "That  is>  of  coorse,  if  Kateen  has  no  objiction." 

If  Kateen  had  any  objiction  it  was  drowned  in  the 
noise  of  two  elevated  trains  passing  the  window  with 
a  rattlety-bang.  Kateen  paid  no  attention  to  them  at  all, 
at  all — then  or  thereafter. 


VI 

AT  THE  BACK  OF  GODSPEED 


WHEN  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  went  through  her  mail  she 
usually  tossed  the  invitations  to  her  secretary  with 
a  word:  "Put  this  on  my  calendar."  "Can  I  accept 
that?"  "Remind  me  to  decline  these  very  politely." 
"You  answer  that  one — coldly.  What  right  have  they 
to  invite  me?" 

But  she  got  one  invitation  that  she  did  not  toss.  She 
jumped  as  she  read  it.  She  blushed.  She  considered. 
When  Miss  Hubbard's  hand  went  out  for  it,  as  of  habit, 
Mrs.  Van  Dusen  recoiled.  She  clutched  the  invitation 
with  so  miserly  a  grasp  that  her  secretary,  who  went 
to  the  theater  a  good  deal,  assumed  that  this  letter  was 
one  of  those  fearful  things  known  as  "the  papers." 

Miss  Hubbard  was  delighted  with  horror,  for  life  was 
rather  tame  in  Mrs.  Van  Dusen 's  employment.  Invita 
tions  to  send  out  and  to  acknowledge ;  charity  moneys  to 
give  or  refuse ;  bills  to  pay ;  check-books  and  bank-books 
to  arrange;  appointments  to  be  kept  in  mind;  money  to 
lend  her  son  and  never  get  back — such  things  about  ex 
hausted  her  excitements.  She  had  not  even  a  husband 
to  quarrel  with.  And  her  handsome  son  rarely  called 
when  the  secretary  was  there — except  on  the  telephone, 

146 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

when  he  grew  flirtatious  in  a  harmless,  amusing  fashion, 
impossible  either  to  rebuke  or  to  encourage. 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  bit  her  lip,  tapped  her  right  mule  on 
the  floor,  read  the  letter  again,  and  then  stuffed  it  into 
the  envelope,  and  the  envelope  into  that  filing-cabinet 
which  a  woman  keeps  between  her  corsets  and  herself. 

Then  she  said  to  her  secretary,  "Remind  me  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Carmody  about — about — just  remind  me  to  speak 
to  him  without  fail." 

This  was  discouraging;  for  Mr.  Carmody  was  only  her 
brother.  He  was  stupendously  rich,  and  so  powerful  that 
everybody  spoke  of  him  with  contempt  and  would  have 
been  very  proud  to  know  him. 

And  that  was  all  the  secretary  found  out  about  the 
invitation,  though  she  duly  made  the  reminder.  When 
Mrs.  Van  Dusen  got  round  to  it  she  went  to  see  her 
brother.  It  was  a  long  trip  down-town,  and  she  was  in 
such  a  temper  that  she  fairly  scorched  her  way  through 
the  outposts  and  the  front-line  trenches  guarding  the 
great  Carmody. 

When  she  reached  him  he  was  up  to  his  ears  in  work. 
He  had  six  telephones  on  his  desk,  and  he  kept  three  of 
them  going  at  once  while  he  conducted  a  conference  in 
a  long-distance  quartet. 

He  looked  up  at  last  and  said,  "Well,  Margaret,  what 
brings  you  down  to  this  end  of  the  world?" 

"I  want  to  see  you." 

"Feast  your  eyes." 

"Alone." 

"I'm  alone."  To  Carmody,  his  secretary  was  only 
furniture. 

"I  said  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Dusen. 

"Oh,  all  right!"     Dakin,  the  perfect  secretary,  who 
never  heard  anything  and  always  heard  everything,  was 
ii  147 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

on  his  way  out  before  Carmody  could  boost  him  with  a 
glance. 

"Will  that  suit  you,"  said  Carmody,  "or  shall  I  plug 
the  keyhole?  What's  wrong  now?  Broke?  Or  is  that 
darling  child  of  yours  in  wrong  again?  I  don't  want  to 
hurry  you,  but  I'm  half  an  hour  late  to  a  board  meeting, 
and  I  make  it  an  infallible  rule  always  to  be  on  time — 
next  time." 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  settled  herself  comfortably  in  a  chair, 
admired  the  skyscape  and  roofscape  through  the  lofty 
window,  then  asked,  casually: 

"Did  you  get  an  invitation  signed  by  somebody  named 
McDwyer?" 

"Did  I?    McGuire?    What  about?" 

"About  a  reunion  at  the  home  of  Michael  Morahan." 

"Oh  yes,  I  believe  I  did!    Yes,  I  know  I  did." 

"Did  you  answer  it?"' 

"I  had  it  answered,  I  think.     Why?" 

"I  got  one,  too." 

Carmody  laughed.     "You  accepted,  of  course." 

"Oh,  of  course!"  she  assented,  with  irony.  "Of  course 
I  can't  go,  but  I  don't  know  how  to  decline  it  gracefully." 

"Why  decline?     Why  not  accept?" 

"Don't  be  absurd.  You  know  I  couldn't  go  there. 
I'd  embarrass  those  people  as  much  as  they'd  embarrass 
me.  And  I'd  never  dare  let  the  chauffeur  take  me  there. 
And,  besides,  I  have  another  engagement." 

"I  believe  I  used  that  excuse  myself." 

"But  it's  true.  You  have  an  engagement  with  me. 
We're  dining  at  the  Schuylers'  and  going  on  to  the 
opera." 

"I  think  I  said  I'd  be  out  of  town." 

"You  might  as  well  be.  They'll  never  know  the  dif 
ference." 

148 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

"Well,  so  long  as  we  have  a  good  excuse,  what  are  you 
worrying  about?  Why  take  this  long  trip?" 

"  Because  I  hate  to  decline.  They  may  think  I'm 
uppish.  I  don't  mind  being  a  snob,  but  I  hate  being 
thought  one.'* 

"I  see.    You  want  me  to  invent  some  real  excuse?" 

"I  thought  you  might  help." 

"Let  me  see.  Dakin  does  most  of  my  lying  for  me — 
in  that  line.  I'll  ask  him." 

"In  Heaven's  name,  no!" 

"Well,  suppose  you  get  your  doctor  to  order  you  to 
Florida." 

"But  I've  got  to  be  at  the  Schuylers'  dinner,  and  the 
following  day  I've  a  reception  that  will  be  in  the  papers." 

"Oh,  well,  I  haven't  got  time  to  do  any  fancy  lying. 
Just  send  'em  your  regrets,  and  if  they  don't  like  'em 
they  can  lump  'em.  We're  under  no  obligations  to  go. 
We  haven't  seen  any  of  the  people  for  over  twenty  years." 

"I  know,  but—" 

"Good-by.  I'm  off.  You  can  dictate  your  answer  to 
Dakin." 

He  pressed  a  spot  on  the  rim  of  his  desk  and  his  secretary 
entered  like  a  bottle-rubbed  genie. 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  said,  "I'll  write  it  myself  at  home." 

Carmody  nodded  and  returned  to  the  tune  he  was 
playing  on  his  various  telephones.  His  sister's  troubles 
did  not  trouble  him.  Being  always  in  trouble,  he  was 
never  in  it,  for  one  vexation  chased  another  off. 

His  sister  suffered  more  because  she  was  always  chasing 
that  sad  thing  called  pleasure.  She  was  caught  in  an 
eternal  game  of  tag,  running  herself  to  death. 

She  had  forgotten  her  humble  origin.  Her  brother's 
luck  and  pluck  had  brought  him  quick  money.  Carmody 
had  found  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow.  In 

149 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

fact,  he  was  accused  of  monopolizing  the  rainbow,  playing 
both  ends  against  the  middle.  His  abilities  had  com 
mended  him  to  bigger  and  bigger  people,  and  his  sister's 
social  paces  had  commended  her  to  their  wives  and 
daughters.  So  they  had  gone  up  like  rockets  and  stayed 
up  like  steeples. 

The  accents  they  had  brought  from  Ireland  had  faded 
from  their  voices  as  completely  as  the  odor  of  the  peat 
smoke  from  their  hair. 

Such  Irish  people  as  they  had  known  for  the  last  decade 
had  been  the  high  Irish,  millionaires,  generals,  cardinals, 
archbishops,  peers,  visiting  poets,  scholars,  judges, 
bankers.  Mrs.  Van  Dusen's  best  friend  was  a  countess 
from  the  Papal  court. 

They  knew,  of  course,  a  little  of  the  poor,  the  peasants, 
but  of  the  middle  class  in  Nova  Hibernia  they  had  no 
knowledge.  They  had  long  since  forgotten  that  they  had 
themselves  risen  like  bubbles  from  the  lees  through  the 
middle  liquor  to  the  gilded  brim  of  life's  glass. 

The  invitation  to  meet  their  ab  origine  acquaintances 
came  as  an  unpleasant  shock.  They  had  no  intention  of 
returning  to  their  old  stratum,  but  they  resented  the 
difficulty  of  refusing  without  giving  a  handle  for  criticism. 
They  sent  their  regrets  and  felt  that  the  matter  was  closed. 
They  counted  without  Michael  Morahan. 


ii 

To  Michael  Morahan  the  reunion  was  a  tremendous 
event.  One  glory  was  that  it  was  to  be  held  at  his 
"house,"  as  he  called  his  flat. 

It  made  him  feel  good  because,  when  his  ship-load 
had  sailed  from  Queenstown,  twenty-five  years  before,  he 
had  been  the  leader  of  the  crowd,  the  biggest  lad  among 

150 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

them,  the  one  of  most  promise.  It  had  been  natural, 
then,  that  they  should  elect  his  home  twenty-five  years 
hence  for  the  tryst.  They  had  laughed  and  blarneyed  his 
poverty  with  the  assurance  that  he  would  have  a  castle  on 
Broadway  in  five  and  twenty  years. 

He  had  not  the  castle.  Many  of  his  companions  had 
distanced  him  in  the  struggle  for  wealth  and  power. 

"Some  of  them  has  distanced  me  on  the  way  to  heaven, 
too,"  he  would  say.  "But  none  of  them  has  distanced 
me  on  the  way  to  health  and  happiness,  though  at  that 
I've  had  more  sickness  and  throuble  than  most.  But  I've 
got  as  long  a  family  as  the  best  of  them — and  a  wife 
that's  more  betterer  than  the  best  that  iver  came  out  of 
Ireland  whativer." 

Delia  slapped  his  hand  away,  but  a  warm  blush  of  pride 
encircled  the  white  spot  his  pinch  left  on  her  generous 
cheek. 

There  was  great  stir  in  the  Morahan  apartment  the 
afternoon  of  the  celebration. 

There  was  much  cooking  to  do,  and  extra  china  and 
silver  to  be  borried  off  the  Dugans  and  all  the  other 
neighbors,  and  a  world  of  folding-chairs  had  in  from  the 
jovial  undertaker's;  these  must  be  snapped  open  and  set 
about.  Ice-cream  freezers  had  to  be  rolled  in,  and  cakes 
iced,  and  no  end  of  bottles  arranged,  to  say  nothing  of 
a  damp,  disreputable  "quarter" — i.  e.,  an  old  keg — that 
Michael  insisted  on  depositing  on  a  kitchen  chair,  with  a 
washtub  under  the  spigot  to  catch  the  suds. 

Michael  was  home  early  from  the  yards  where  he  kept 
his  teams  and  the  odds  and  ends  of  his  business  as  a  small 
contractor. 

The  house  was  already  full,  and  the  kitchen  so  crowded 
that  the  workers  had  to  pirouette  about  one  another. 
The  sons'  wives  were  on  the  scurry  everywhere,  as  was 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

Kate,  who  was  still  thought  of  as  the  old-maid  daughter, 
though  she  kept  referring  to  her  husband,  "Mr.  O'Gara," 
and  brandishing  her  brand-new  wedding-ring. 

Everybody  was  in  a  grand  fluster  and  nobody  noticed 
that  pretty  Moyna  Killilea,  recently  become  Mrs.  Shane 
O'Mealia,  was  quietly  weeping  into  the  dish-water  where 
she  soused  the  neighbors'  china.  Michael,  who  kept  re 
turning  to  offer  his  help  as  often  as  he  was  evicted  by  his 
wife,  was  the  first  to  notice  the  tears  splashing,  and  he 
nudged  Delia  as  she  was  passing  him  with  a  delicately 
equilibrated  arrangement  of  borrowed  cups  and  saucers 
that  would  have  made  a  juggler  envious.  She  got  to  the 
table  before  the  collapse  and  rounded  on  Michael.  He 
saved  himself  by  his  mystery. 

"Whisper!     Moyna's  cryin'." 

"She  is  not!    Is  she  truly?    She  is!    The  creature!" 

Delia  went  to  her  and  asked  her  why.  Moyna  brushed 
the  tears  away  with  a  wet  hand  and  left  soapy  water  in 
place  of  brine. 

"Och,  it's  nothin'  much,  only  Shane  lost  his  job  in  the 
stove-shop  and  we'll  be  turned  out  in  the  cold,  and  I 
told  him  he'd  ought  to  have  married  Judy  Dugan  and 
been  rich,  instead  of  this  old  Me.  And  one  word  led  to 
another  and  hard  names  were  passed,  and  I'd  have  run 
off  and  left  him,  but  he  run  off  first,  and  I  don't  know  where 
he  wint — not  that  I  care,  for  I'll  never  look  at  him  again." 

And  then  she  belied  her  words  by  sobbing  her  pretty 
head  almost  off. 

This  family  quarrel  made  no  impression  on  Michael. 
He  was  used  to  the  squally  weather  of  landlocked  waters, 
but  he  gasped:  "Hasn't  he  got  out  of  the  habit  yet  of 
losin'  jobs?  I  thought  marriage  would  reform  him,  but 
it  looks  like  he  was  set  on  bein'  the  champeen  job-dropper 
of  the  world." 

152 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

He  felt  responsible,  since  he  had  sent  over  to  Ireland 
and  imported  Moyna,  and,  now  that  Moyna's  tears  be 
gan  to  spatter  the  dishes  like  bird-shot,  he  changed  his 
tune: 

"Ah,  don't  mind,  Moyna  honey.  I'll  get  him  another 
and  a  betther.  This  very  night  I'll  make  Matt  Carmody 
give  him  a  job — no,  I'll  make  him  give  him  a  position. 
He's  grown  past  jobs.  You  wait!  As  soon  as  Carmody 
comes — " 

Delia  echoed  his  words  with  an  intonation  of  ridicule, 
and  added,  "If  Shane  waits  for  that  he'll  do  a  bit  of 
waitin'  will  bate  all  records." 

"For  why  would  you  say  that?"  Michael  roared. 

"Because  Carmody  is  never  comin'." 

"Of  course  he's  comin'!    And  why  wouldn't  he?" 

He  brought  on  himself  a  landslide  of  reasons.  Delia 
put  down  her  burden  and  smothered  him  with  them. 

"Why  wouldn't  he?  say  you.  Why  would  he?  says  me. 
As  if  a  man  like  Carmody,  who's  got  millions  where  we've 
got  hundreds,  had  nothin'  better  to  do  of  an  evenin'  than 
forgather  with  a  lot  of  plain  people — just  every-day  Irish 
that  hasn't  an  ahtomobile  to  ride  home  from  work  in 
nor  a  bank  to  call  their  own.  And  his  sister  one  of  the 
swellest  of  swells!  Widdy  of  a  man  whose  brother-in- 
law's  a  duke  and  his  aunt  is  an  earl,  and —  Wasn't  it 
myself  saw  her  own  son  drivin'  a  stage-coach  up  Fi'th 
Avenyeh  one  day,  with  half  a  doozen  of  harses  in  front 
and  harns  blowin'  till  you'd  think  it  was  an  army — or 
somebody  sellin'  fish.  And  his  mother  herself,  didn't  I 
see  her  photograph  in  the  paper  along  with  famous  mur 
derers  and  politicians  and — " 

Michael  tried  to  escape.  He  kept  putting  in  vain 
phrases:  "Well,  of  coorse — that  may  be,  but — but — 
well — howanever — here!  wait — say!  back  up!  shut  up!" 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Such  words  before  the  others,"  Delia  protested.  "But 
what  I  was  sayin'  was — " 

An  elevated  train  roared  by  the  windows  just  then  with 
prolonged  thunder.  Delia  went  right  on  talking,  unheard 
but  eloquent.  When  it  had  gone  by,  her  voice  emerged 
again  abruptly,  " — and  diamonds  on  her  till  you'd  be 
sayin', '  Is  it  a  new  kind  of  a  disease  she  has  ?'  and  Carmody 
so  famous  the  President  itself  is  afraid  to  speak  to  him, 
and—" 

Another  train  went  past  the  other  way  with  the  same 
uproar.  Delia  moved  to  shut  the  window,  but  Michael 
stopped  her  and  yelled  into  her  ear,  "I  prefer  the  ilevated." 
He  shouted  to  it:  "I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  Come 
again!" 

Delia  subsided  with  a  triumphant:  "And  that's  why 
Carmody  will  forget  to  be  here.  He's  forgotten  the  likes 
of  us  long  ago." 

"Forgotten,  is  it?"  Michael  continued.  "Wasn't  he 
a  lad  with  the  rest  of  us  ?  Didn't  he  come  over  in  the  same 
steamer?  Didn't  I  lind  him  the  loan  of  all  the  shoes  he 
had  to  his  feet?  A  man  may  forgit  much,  but  he'll  not 
aisy  forgit  the  place  he  was  born  in.  He  may  forgit  the 
man  he  met  yesterday,  but  niver  the  boys  he  grew  up 
with.  He'll  be  here  or  I'm  an  Orangeman." 

The  telephone  whirred  faintly  from  the  other  room.  It 
had  a  way  of  following  up  Michael's  boasts  unless  he  spit 
for  luck.  He  had  neglected  the  exorcism  and  he  was 
uneasy. 

"Now  who's  that?"  said  Delia. 

"How  should  I  know  his  voice  from  that  dom'  bell?" 
Michael  blustered.  He  usually  blustered  when  he  was 
afraid.  He  went  into  the  living-room  like  a  school-boy 
going  up  to  get  what-for.  Delia  held  the  door  ajar  and 
listened  in. 

154 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

"Hello!  hello!  hello!  Well,  well!  Mr.— who?  Mr. 
Morahan?"  Michael  stormed  in  an  artificial  voice.  "I'll 
inquire  is  he  in.  Who  is  it  that  might  be  wantin'  to  see 
him?  McDwyer?"  Delia  could  see  his  grin  from  the 
back  of  his  neck.  "Hello,  Mac!  It's  me  all  the  while. 
Well,  how's  things  comin '  ?  Are  all  the  answers  in  to  the 
invitations,  and  is  ivery  wan  comin'?  .  .  .  That's  grand. 
...  All  but  who?  .  .  .  He's  not?  ...  Ah,  that's  a  ... 
He  regrets?  ...  He  did  like  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  be  ... 
Well,  for  the  love  of  ...  Not  comin'  ...  A  previous 
ingagemint!  I'd  give  him  a  previous  ingagemint  on  the 
nose  could  I  find  him.  I  wouldn't  take  tin  dollars  for 
the  grudge  I  owe  that  man.  Well,  you're  comin'  round 
yourself,  of  coorse.  .  .  .  That's  right.  We've  got  along 
so  far  without  that  felly,  we'll  try  to  sweat  out  a  day  or 
two  more." 

Delia  saw  how  his  big  head  drooped  and  heard  the  false 
cheer  in  his  voice. 

"I'm  glad  he's  not  comin'.  He'd  put  a  damper  on  the 
rest  of  us.  I  never  liked  him.  I  sometimes  think  that 
some  of  the  things  the  paper  says  about  him  is  true. 
Well,  I'll  see  you  later." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  stood  gazing  blankly  at 
the  transmitter  of  such  bad  news.  Delia  was  merciful: 

"I  told  you  so,  but  I'm  sorry  I  told  you  so." 

"A  previous  ingagemint!"  Michael  barked,  as  he 
whirled.  "What  right  has  he  to  a  previous  ingagemint? 
Sure  he  made  this  one  twinty-five  years  past.  If  I 
could  lay  hold  of  him."  He  seized  the  telephone-book. 
"I  wonder  what's  the  noomber.  Previous  ingagemint!" 

Shane  O'Mealia,  the  luckless,  the  jobless,  came  in  now 
to  add  to  the  gloom.  When  he  learned  what  Michael 
was  up  to  he  said:  "It's  no  use,  uncle.  I  tried  to  get 
to  him  meself  once,  when  I  was  looking  for  a  job.  There's 

155 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

about  a  thousand  office-boys  between  him  and  the  world. 
Why,  his  secretary's  got  a  secretary." 

Michael  growled  as  he  went  on  rummaging  the  tele 
phone-book:  "I'll  go  through  thim  office-boys  like  I  was 
a  cyclone.  Here  we  are,  'Carmody,  Abigail,  Chiropo 
dist.'  What's  that,  I  don't  know.  'Carmody,  Abra 
ham,  Pants/  Say,  what's  happened  the  Carmodys?" 
He  ran  his  thumb  down  the  index  awkwardly.  "'Car 
mody,  Bridget.'  Ah,  that  sounds  better,  more  home-like. 
'Dinnis — Emmett — Ignatius.'  Ah,  'Matthew  Haitch, 
Truckman.'  There  must  be  two  of  them,  for  he's  not 
here.  Is  he  not  able  for  a  telephone,  I  wonder?  May 
hap  they've  taken  it  out  on  him." 

Shane  explained:  "He's  so  important,  he's  not  listed. 
You'd  better  try  the  Coagulated  Steel;  that's  Broad, 
twinty-wan  hundred." 

"That's  a  divil  of  a  note — to  have  a  telephone  and 
ashamed  to  say  so."  He  took  up  the  receiver  for  one  of 
his  usual  bouts  with  the  operator.  "Hello!  hello,  Cin- 
theral!  Are  you  asleep  at  the  switch?  Give  me  Broad 
twinty-wan,  oh,  oh.  ...  No,  not  tin  to  wan — twinty- 
wan,  oh,  oh.  .  .  .  No,  no.  Oh — oh — wow,  wow. 
Yis.  .  .  .  All  right.  Thank  you,  plase!  much  obliged! 
you're  hairtily  welcome."  A  pause,  then:  "Hello!  Is 
this  twinty-wan,  oh —  I'm  ashamed  to  say  it.  Is  this 
the  Granulated  Steel?  ...  I  want  Carmody,  Mat-too 
Ah  Carmody.  ...  All  right;  I'm  holdin'  the  wire  as 
fasht  as  I  can.  ...  Is  this  you,  Carmody?  Ah,  what 
does  it  matter  who  I  am?  I'm  not  askin'  you  to  call  me. 
I'm  callin'  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  his  sickrety,  are  you? 
Pl'ased  to  meet  you.  And  how's  your  sickrety?"  He 
turned  aside  to  sniff:  "An  extra  sickrety.  And  I  knew 
him  when  he  hadn't  an  extra  shirt." 

He  reverted  to  the  telephone.     "I'm  waitii)'.  ...  So 

156 


AT    THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

are  you?  Well,  I'll  hold  the  'phone  till  I  see  Carmody, 
if  I  have  to  set  here  all  night.  What's  my  business? 
That's  my  business.  It's  none  of  your  business.  .  .  .  No, 
I'm  not  a  reporter.  Say,  tell  him  it's  personal,  and  it's 
scandalous,  and  I'm  Irish,  and — I  used  to  know  him 
when  ...  All  right.  Sure  I'll  hould  the  wire." 

Having  won  thus  far,  he  chortled  as  he  put  his  hand 
over  the  mouthpiece.  "The  sickrety  has  gone  to  chase 
up  Carmody.  I  hope  I  don't  have  as  much  work  as  this 
gettin'  to  Saint  Peter."  He  started  suddenly:  "Hello! 
hello!  Is  this  Mr.  Carmody?  Mattoo  Ah  Carmody? 
.  .  .  Himself?  ...  Is  it  yourself  that's  talkin',  or  some 
body  for  you?  .  .  .  Oh!" 

In  a  glow  of  success,  he  grinned,  winked,  snuggled  to 
the  telephone,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  of  angelic  geniality : 

"Hello,  Mat!  You're  lookin'  well.  .  .  .  You  don't 
know  me  voice?  You  used  to  when  I  wint  by  your  cabin 
on  the  way  to  the  big  bog-hole  for  a  shwim,  and  I'd 
holler,  'Hello,  Mat!  Quit  out  o'  that  and  go  shwimmin'.' 
.  .  .  Ah,  that  remimbers  you,  doos  it?  .  .  .  Yis,  it's  me. 
.  .  .  Oh,  she's  well.  She  sinds  you  her  love." 

Delia  cuffed  him. 

He  yelped:  "Ouch!  She's  very  strahng.  You'd 
hardly  see  a  change  in  her,  for  all  she's  the  mother  av  a 
rigiment.  .  .  .  Ah,  hush  your  blarney!  You'll  have  the 
Cintheral  blushin'." 

He  lowered  his  voice  to  his  old  crony:  "Say,  Matt, 
listen!  There's  a  little  gang  of  us  gettin'  thegither  the 
night  at  my  .  .  .  Yis,  McDwyer  told  me  you  wrote 
him  you  had  another  date,  but  I  said  this  ingagemint  was 
made  twinty-five  years  back.  Sure,  when  I  lent  ye  the 
loan  of  the  brogues  you  walked  the  deck  in,  it's  little  I 
thought  for  to  see  you  ownin'  fifty-sivin  vari'ties  of  rail 
roads  an'  a  couple  o'  judges  for  stenographers.  .  .  .  Ah, 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

go  on,  you  old  fox,  wasn't  I  in  politics  once  meself  ? — till 
I  got  nare-sighted  and  dursn't  trust  meself  amongst  the 
gang? 

"  Judge  McMurtha  11  be  here.  You  won't  fergit  the 
little  sprissawn  of  a  man  he  was.  And  he  a  judge  now! 
He's  gettin'  a  bit  old  and  feeble,  so  they're  talkin'  of 
makin'  a  Sinator  of  him.  You'll  be  needin'  some  fresh 
Sinators  now.  Those  ones  you're  afther  usin'  this  long 
time  is  goin'  that  stale,  people  holds  their  noses  whin  they 
rades  the  names  of  thim. 

"Come  along  out  yourself.  .  .  .  No,  some  other  avenin' 
won't  do  whativer.  What  talk  have  ye  of  ingagemints. 
Lave  your  board  of  directors  go  to  ...  If  you  lose  a 
million,  I'll  lind  you  another.  I'll  tell  you  wan  thing, 
and  that's  not  two — it's  sorry  the  chanst  again  you'll 
have  to  come  to  a  twinty-fifth  anniversary.  I  hate  to 
think  where  you're  li'ble  to  be  twinty-five  years  from  this. 
Some  of  us  that  come  over  on  the  boat  won't  be  here — 
they  wisht  they  could  but  for  the  weight  of  the  sod  that's 
over  thim." 

His  griefs  mobilized  as  rapidly  as  his  joys.  "Fine  lads, 
they  were,  too,  some  of  thim — those  that  wasn't  girls.  .  .  . 
Yis — true  for  you! — too  bad  for  thim.  So  come  along, 
now,  or  I'll  hang  on  here  till  you  do.  .  .  .  Ah,  now  you're 
tahkin'!" 

He  nodded  to  Delia  and  whispered,  "He'll  come!" 

"You  don't  mane  it!"  Delia  gasped,  and  Michael 
parroted  it: 

"You  don't  mane  it — I  mane  you  do  mane  it!"  He 
whispered  to  Delia:  "He  says  he  doos  mane  it.  ...  All 
right,  Matt — we'll  expect  ye.  Good-by — " 

Delia  prodded  him  with  a  plate.  He  cried  out:  "Wait! 
—wait!  Say!"  He  turned  to  Delia,  "  Well?" 

"His  sister." 

158 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

"Your  sister!  We're  expectin'  her,  of  coorse.  She 
coom  over  on  the  boat,  too.  .  .  .  Yis,  I  heard  she  was 
married — to  who,  I  disremimber.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Van — what? 
.  .  .  Van  Dusen?  That's  a  hell  of  a  name  for  an  honest 
Irish  girl.  Still,  we'll  forgive  her  that  if  she  comes. 
Ah,  make  her  come.  Tell  her  to  lave  the  dishes  till  afther 
she  gets  home.  Coin*  to  the  opera?  What  opera — 
Caruso?  Oh,  be  the  powers  of  smoke!  Dagoes  can't 
make  music — only  n'ise.  Tell  Maggie  we're  goin'  to 
have  some  rale  music — Irish.  I  have  a  new  son-in-law 
plays  the  pipes.  Shame  her  into  it.  ...  That's  right! 
We'll  be  expectin'  the  both  of  you.  Good-by,  Matt." 

He  set  the  receiver  back  and  caressed  the  telephone 
as  he  murmured,  "Nice  felly,  Matt!" 

Delia  masked  her  pride  in  the  conqueror  with  an  im 
patient,  "Well,  you've  been  settin'  at  that  insterment 
long  enough  to  hatch  a  clutch  o'  eggs." 

"Annyhow,  I  hatched  Carmody,"  said  Michael. 

His  work  was  done.  But  Carmody  had  still  to  per 
suade  his  sister. 

in 

The  elevated  railroad  that  had  drowned  so  much  con 
versation  in  the  Morahan  home  was  drowned  itself  in  the 
hubbub  of  the  party  that  night.  The  house  was  so  shaken 
with  laughter,  the  fetching  of  jigs  and  duels  of  laughter, 
that  the  agitation  of  the  Elevated  made  no  impression. 
The  trains  slunk  by  discouraged. 

Michael's  wife,  an  honest  Irish-lace  fichu  about  her 
shoulders,  was  trying  to  greet  the  guests  with  one  merry 
eye  while  the  other  anxiously  watched  for  her  husband. 
Michael's  mother  was  not  worried.  This  ancient  Bridget 
kept  her  state  in  a  large  arm-chair  she  did  not  rise 
from.  She  had  on  her  best  black  gown,  and  a  bit  of 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

lace  stuck  in  what  hair  she  had  to  conceal  what  she 
had  not. 

Out  in  the  dining-room  Kate,  very  much  dressed  up, 
was  making  the  last  frantic  revisions  of  the  food  display. 
The  tables  were  staggered  under  towers  of  substantials. 
On  the  sideboard  were  sandwiches  of  every  kind,  and 
even  olluvs,  as  well  as  flowers,  little  green  pigs,  and  tiny 
green  flags  with  golden  harps — the  emblem  of  a  singing 
race.  In  the  kitchen,  like  a  forlorn  Cinderella,  sat 
Moyna  O'Mealia,  her  face  so  blubbered  with  tears  that  she 
would  not  go  into  the  parlor  at  all.  She  went  about  cry 
ing  into  everything,  and  alternately  vowing  that  she'd  die 
if  Shane  did  not  come  back  soon  from  wherever  he  was, 
and  that  if  he  did  she  would  never  speak  to  him  again. 

In  the  crowded  parlor  Michael's  landlord,  John  Giluley, 
was  prominent.  Like  most  landlords,  he  was  chronically 
sick  with  hopes  deferred  mitigated  only  by  deferred  re 
pairs.  He  wore  a  long  frock-coat  and  kept  unconsciously 
putting  his  foot  up  for  the  bar-room  rail  that  was  not 
there.  He  talked  down  to  Justice  McMurtha,  a  small 
man  with  a  large  cargo  of  distinction.  The  justice  was 
right  smart  for  his  size,  with  evening  dress  of  the  sort 
called  impeccable. 

His  sweet  and  sugary  daughter,  Rosie,  looking  as  if  she 
were  a  candy-box  picture  come  to  life,  was  seated  on  the 
stool  of  the  upright  piano.  Two  of  the  Morahan  sons, 
Myles  and  Shamus,  both  very  swell  in  their  "Tuxedas," 
were  carelessly  seated  on  the  piano-keys  on  either  side  of 
Rosie.  Loving  each  other  like  Cain  and  Abel,  they  were 
alternately  jangling  the  upper  and  the  lower  ivories  as 
they  bent  to  speak  to  Rosie  and  sat  back. 

Delia,  in  a  stew  of  impatience  at  her  husband's  bodily 
absence,  was  mentally  absent  in  pursuit  of  him,  while  she 
tried  to  make  Mrs.  Giluley  feel  at  home.  Glancing  at 

160 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

Mr.  Giluley,  who  was  just  rebuking  his  scandalous  foot 
for  giving  itself  away  by  making  for  that  rail  again,  Delia 
said: 

"It's  a  joy,  sure,  to  see  how  well  you  keep  lookin', 
Mrs.  Giluley.  And  what  way  is  Himself?" 

Mrs.  Giluley  cast  a  despairful  look  at  her  spouse,  caught 
him  with  foot  in  air,  and  moaned: 

"Oh,  himself  is  scarce  fit  to  hop  the  len'th  of  his  own 
shadder,  the  rheumatics  is  that  strahng  in  him.  But  it's 
only  your  good  kindness  that  says  I'm  lookin'  well. 
Surely  you've  took  note  of  me  jah." 

Delia,  too  distraught  even  to  notice  that  protuberance, 
made  capital  of  her  neglect. 

"It  had  not  caught  me  eye.  Now  that  I  look  close, 
it  is  a  trifle  swole.  What's  on  it,  at  all?  Moomps!" 

"Oh,  saints  shield  us  round !  I'm  nearly  destroyed  with 
the  faceache." 

"It's  neurology,  belike,  or  maybe  a  tooth  that's  in  it. 
Have  you  tried  Doctor  O'Halloran,  the  painless  dintist?" 

"Oh,  he  may  be  painless,  but  me,  I'm  not.  You'd 
think  he  thought  I  was  a  boulder  of  the  granite  and  he 
makin'  ready  to  drill  a  blasht-hole.  I  let  a  screech  you'd 
heard  from  Bantry  to  Boyne,  was  you  there." 

"Och,  musha!  if  there's  annything  worser  than  a 
joompin'  tooth,  just  get  me  it." 

Mrs.  Giluley  felt  it  only  polite  to  note  that  Delia's 
Himself  was  absent.  "But  where's  Michael  this  while?" 

"Oh,  that  Michael!"  Delia  sniffed.  "He's  always  be 
hind,  like  the  cow's  tail.  Sure,  but  gettin'  a  pig  to  a  fair 
is  less  than  leadin'  him  into  a  dress-soot.  I'll  try  him 
again."  She  went  to  the  sliding-door  and  beckoned  Kate 
to  her  whisper,  "In  the  name  of  all,  Katie  dear,  go  see 
what's  happened  your  pa!" 

Kate  shook  her  head  hopelessly.  "I've  spoke  to  him 

161  / 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

twice,  and  such  words  as  he  put  on  me  through  the 
door!" 

"I'll  put  words  on  him,  keepin'  the  guests  waitin'!" 
She  went  resolutely  to  the  room  where  Michael  writhed 
in  a  death-wrestle  with  his  linen. 

"Is  this  a  dog-collar  you  laid  out  for  me?"  he  snarled. 
"I  can't  git  half  me  neck  in  it  at  the  one  time." 

"And  why  would  you?"  Delia  snapped,  as  she  whipped 
it  off.  "It's  not  your  collar  by  four  sizes.  It  coom 
home  in  the  launthry.  Some  child's  collar  it  is." 

She  found  him  one  of  his  own  and  fastened  it  round 
him,  then  picked  up  a  forlorn  strip  of  white. 

"Is  this  your  tie?" 

"It  was.     It's  a  thrifle  roompled." 

"Roompled,  is  it!  It  looks  like  the  cats  had  foughten 
over  it." 

She  made  the  best  bow  she  could  of  it,  and  he  grew  so 
proud  of  himself  that  when  she  called  him  "a  little-good  - 
for"  he  embraced  her  and  chortled: 

"That  makes  two  of  us." 

Then  he  broke  into  song, 

"If  thou'lt  be  mine,  the  threasures  of  air,  of  earth,  and  say 
shall  lie  at  thy  feet!" 

Delia  struggled  to  repress  him.  "Hush  and  hurry  up. 
The  pairty  is  all  assimbled." 

His  spirits  were  not  to  be  quenched.  He  cried:  "All 
the  more  better.  We'll  make  a  triumphal  intry.  Come 
on  with  you  now!"  And  despite  her  resistance,  he 
dragged  her  into  the  crowd  as  he  sang: 

"Saint  Patrick  was  a  gintleman; 
He  came  from  dacint  people. 
In  Dooblin  town  he  built  a  church 
And  put  upon  't  a  shteeple. 
162 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

His  father  was  a  Callaghan, 
His  mother  was  a  Brady, 
His  aunt  was  an  O'Shaughnessy, 
And  his  uncle  was  a  Grady." 

He  marched  forward,  shaking  hands  with  his  guests, 
and  swept  them  into  an  eddy  after  him.  They  joined 
the  song,  and  he  led  them  round  his  mother's  chair  with  a 
wild  hullaballoo  in  the  refrain: 

"Thin  succiss  to  bould  Saint  Patrick's  fisht. 
He  was  a  saint  so  cliver, 
He  gave  the  shnakes  and  toads  a  twisht, 
And  banished  thim  foriver." 

Everybody  repeated  the  last  line  with  a  breakdown  that 
frightened  Giluley  for  his  building. 

There  was  a  terrific  clatter,  but  Michael  topped  it  with 
a  howl: 

"Who  says  it's  twinty-five  years  since  we  were 
lads?" 

Justice  McMurtha  wanted  more  music.  He  shouted: 
"Encore!  There's  a  second  verse  to  that.  Encore!" 

Michael  rebuked  him.  "Who  is  it  uses  a  dago  word 
when  there's  the  good  Irish  AREESTH!  But  I've  neither 
the  win*  nor  the  mimory  for  it.  You  sing  it,  Judge.  Ha, 
you  a  judge — you  young  rogue,  you!  Go  on  and  sing  it 
or  I'll  tell  what  I  know  of  you." 

The  little  judge,  in  an  astonishingly  severe  basso  like  a 
lyrical  death-warrant,  roared,  in  a  brogue  cruelly  com 
promised  by  years  of  New  York  dialect: 

"There's  not  a  mile  in  lahland's  isle 
Where  the  doity  voimin  mustahs. 
Where'er  he  put  his  deah  foot  down, 
He  moidered  them  in  clustahs; 
12  163 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

The  toads  went  hop,  the  frogs  went  flop, 

Slap  dash  into  the  wawtah, 

And  the  beasts  committed  suicide, 

To  save  themselves  from  slawtah." 


All  joined  in  the  chorus  again: 

"Thin  succiss  to  bould  Saint  Patrick's  fisht. 
He  was  a  saint  so  cliver, 
He  gave  the  shnakes  and  toads  a  twisht, 
And  banished  thim  foriver." 


A  breakdown  like  a  bombardment  followed,  till  Delia 
protested  with  horror: 

"For  the  love  of  the  saints,  will  ye  have  the  pairty 
pulled  before  it's  begun?" 

"Who's  to  stop  it?"  Michael  retorted.  "Haven't  we 
the  police  with  us?"  He  put  an  arm  around  his  son 
Myles.  "And  the  fire  department  to  put  disturbers  out?" 
He  put  an  arm  around  his  son  Shamus.  "And  a  mimber 
of  the  judiciary  to  suspind  sintence?"  He  kicked  amiably 
at  the  judge.  "And  a  future  ripresintative  of  the  State 
Legislature  to  amind  the  lah?" 

He  swung  the  other  foot  at  Giluley,  who  limped  out 
of  reach.  Michael  raved  on.  "And  if  those  are  not 
enough,  haven't  we  ahl  the  beauty  in  the  world  to  chairtn 
the  invader  and  loor  him  into  a  fatal  slumber?" 

Delia  admired  his  gigantic  hilarity  with  terror:  "Oh, 
Michael  avic,  for  the  love  of  the  saints  and  the  neighbors, 
hold  your  whist!" 

Judge  McMurtha  pleaded  for  him:  "Don't  spoil  him, 
Mrs.  Morahan.  After  my  years  on  the  bench,  it's  like 
heaven  to  unbend,  and,  by  Heaven!  we're  going  to  tin- 
bend  to-night.  He  ought  to  be  here  now." 

"He?  Who?  Carmody,  d'ye  mean?  Where  is  the  big 

164 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

gomeral?  Isn't  he  here?"  Michael  fell  from  the  clouds 
with  a  thump.  He  had  relied  on  Carmody,  and  boasted 
of  his  capture. 

" Carmody  nothing,"  said  Judge  McMurtha.  "The 
old  blind  piper  that  piped  for  us  at  the  patterns  in  Lisdoon- 
varna  is  the  guest  of  honor." 

"Who  was  that,  now?    I  forget."     Michael  pondered. 

Delia  found  the  name  as  she  ransacked  her  memory. 
"That  wouldn't  be  old  Dinnis  Killilea?" 

"The  same,"  said  McMurtha,  grandly. 

"But  I've  had  him  dead  these  long  years/'  said  Delia. 

Old  Bridget  confirmed  the  tradition:  "That's  the  story 
we  have  at  home — that  he  fell  in  a  bog-hole,  ten-odd 
years  past." 

"He  fell  in  a  bog-hole,"  McMurtha  conceded,  "but  it 
was  filled  with  something  stronger  than  water.  He's 
wandered  all  round  the  world,  wherever  there  were  Irish 
to  listen  to  his  pipes.  I  heard  of  him  being  out  in  Chicago, 
and  after  much  correspondence  with  the  chief  of  police,  I 
had  him  shipped  East." 

Mrs.  Giluley  forgot  her  tooth  and  smiled  lopsidedly: 
"Old  Killilea,  eh?  Sure,  he  must  be  a  thousand  years  old 
if  he's  a  minyute." 

McMurtha  nodded.  "Very  old  he  is  and  very  peevish, 
and  prouder  than  the  Old  Boy  himself.  But  he  can  still 
play  the  Union  pipes  past  anything  I  ever  heard." 

"But  if  you  have  him,  where  have  you  him?"  Michael 
demanded,  impatient  for  more  music. 

"He's  like  you,"  said  McMurtha,  "he  has  to  make  a 
grand  entrance.  I  didn't  want  to  miss  anything,  so  I 
asked  my  secretary  to  bring  him  over  later." 

"And  you  have  a  sickrety,  too?"  said  Michael.  "Mur 
der  in  Irish,  Delia,  we'll  have  to  git  one  of  them," 

Delia  was  afield  in  the  back  pastures, 

165 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Old  Dinnis  Killilea!  he  piped  for  our  wedding, 
Michaelawn." 

Michael  nodded  dolefully.  "That  he  did— that  he 
did !  And  wouldn't  he  be  the  granduncle  or  greataunt  or 
something  to  Moyna?" 

Bridget  bobbed  her  head:  "Her  father's  cousin's  step 
mother  married  her  uncle's  nephew's  father — or  some 
thing  like  that." 

"  Oh,  is  it  so  close  of  kin  they  are  ? "  said  Michael.  ' '  And 
where  is  Moyna  and  her  man  Shane?" 

Delia  made  mysterious  signs  that  he  had  learned  to 
obey.  He  changed  the  subject  at  once. 

"I  had  hoped  to  see  Peter  Kehoe  to-night.  He  was  on 
the  ship  with  us.  Will  he  be  here?" 

"Niver  an  answer  he  answered  my  letter,"  said  Mr. 
McDwyer. 

Mrs.  O'Rahilly  broke  in:  "He  made  tubs  of  money,  and 
the  last  time  I  saw  him  he  told  me  he  was  running  over 
to  the  old  country  for  a  visit.  He  must  have  stayed." 

"Aye,  stay  he  did,"  Bridget  croaked.  "Wasn't  I  one 
that  saw  him  took  to  his  grave  there?" 

All  the  old  eyes  widened  with  funereal  fascination  as 
children's  do  at  a  ghost-story.  Bridget  told  the  tale: 

"He  came  back  to  us  and  made  his  mother's  last  years 
happy,  and  whin  she  wint  he  was  not  long  folly  in'  her." 

"Oh,  the  pity!"  sighed  Michael;  "and  him  the  liveliest 
lad  on  the  ship.  He  brought  along  his  concertina  and 
played  the  dances  for  us.  Do  you  remimber?" 

"It's  well  I  remimber  the  burryin'  of  him,"  said 
Bridget.  "It  was  in  the  greatest  storm  since  the  Famine. 
Troth,  the  sky  had  a  look  on  it  like  it  would  be  a  bog  was 
turned  upside  down  and  the  air  full  of  the  emptyin's." 

The  pink  Rosie  did  not  like  this  picture:  "The  poor 
fellow,  to  be  buried  in  such  a  storm!  Ugh!" 

166 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

"Och,  merry-come-sad,  honey!"  Bridget  smiled  ten 
derly.  "Don't  you  know  the  sayin' — 'Happy  are  the 
brides  the  sun  shines  on,  happy  are  the  dead  the  rain 
rains  on'?" 

"I  never  heard  that,"  Rosie  murmured. 

"The  sun  will  be  shinin'  on  your  weddin',  one  of  these 
days  soon." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Myles  and  Shamus  together. 

Michael  meditated  aloud  on  it:  "So  Peter  Kehoe's 
dead.  That's  too  bad!  He  owed  me  nine  dollars.  Well, 
lave  it  go.  I  suppose  his  bein'  burried  is  why  he  niver 
answered  the  letter  I  sint  him.  I  sint  it  to  his  old  New 
York  address,  but  I  marked  it,  'Kindly  forward  if  not 
there.'  I  misdoubt  they  forwarded  it." 

Rosie  returned  to  the  piano-stool.  Myles  and  Shamus 
returned  to  their  posts  on  the  keys.  They  sat  down  with 
a  jangle  that  startled  Michael.  He  rounded  on  them. 

"Come  off  that  pianny,  you  lumb'rin' hulks !  Is  it  a 
park  binch  ye  think  it  is?  And  it's  fresh  tuned,  too. 
Cost  me  two  dollars." 

"Oh,  all  right,  pa,"  said  Myles.     "Don't  get  excited." 

But  that  was  what  Michael  most  wanted  to  do.  He  had 
an  old  feud  with  Carmody,  and  he  had  his  heart  set  on 
recalling  it  to  life.  He  moped  about,  doing  the  work  of  a 
host  perfunctorily.  It  was  a  long  while  before  the  ringing 
of  the  door-bell  revived  his  hopes.  He  sent  Kate  to  the 
door  and  tried  to  look  indifferent.  Delia  peeked  into  the 
hall  and  gave  the  warning  with  a  shrill  whisper. 

"It's  the  Carmodys!" 

IV 

Guests  of  honor  do  well  to  come  late,  for  they  usually 
bring  constraint  with  them.  It  was  so  with  the  mere 
rumor  of  the  Carmodys.  Instantly  all  ease  disappeared. 

167 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

The  famous  plutocrats  who  had  been  little  more  than  a 
misty  tradition  haft  actually  materialized.  Everybody 
felt  small  and  unimportant  and  yet  resentful.  Even 
Michael  took  on  a  stage-fright. 

Delia  made  another  confidential  pronouncement. 

"They  act  as  if  they  didn't  know  where  to  lave  their 
things.  Why  doosn't  Kate  take  them?  It's  a  butler 
they're  used  to." 

"A  butler  is  it?"  Mrs.  Giluley  shrilled.  "When  Mag 
Carmody  come  on  the  ship  she  had  nothin'  to  give  a  butler 
but  the  old  shawl  on  her  head.  And  her  brother  Matthew 
he  had  hardly  a  hat.  I  could  V  had  him,  but  I  chose 
Giluley." 

Giluley  straightened  up  as  straight  as  his  rheumatic 
joints  would  let  him,  and  crowed: 

"She  did  so.    She  chose  me." 

"She's  a  good  chooser,"  said  Michael.  "Carmody  has 
twinty  million  dollars." 

Delia  whispered  again:  "Maggie  Carmody  is  still 
puffin'  like  a  whale.  She's  not  used  to  stairs." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Michael,  relieving  his  pride.  "Her 
father's  cabin  had  but  the  one  story,  and  hardly  that. 
The  Carmodys  were  poorer  than  the  poorest  in  Lisdoon- 
varna." 

None  the  less,  there  was  a  hasty  straightening  of  ties 
and  smoothing  of  skirts  as  well  as  faces  to  greet  the 
advent  of  the  quondam  paupers. 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen,  gorgeously  dressed  for  the  opera, 
floated  in  like  a  swan  among  geese.  She  was  as  ill-at-ease 
as  the  homely  fowl,  and  as  much  afraid  of  them  as  they  of 
her. 

Delia  had  an  attack  of  lockjaw.  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  was 
the  first  to  speak.  She  recognized  nobody. 

"Mrs.  Morahan?"  she  said,  gropingly. 

168 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

Delia,  startled  into  action,  came  forward  with  a  shy, 
"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Van  Dusen?" 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  felt  the  chill  and  tried  to  thaw  it  with 
a  majestic  condescension. 

"We  used  to  call  each  other  Delia  and  Margaret,  didn't 
we?" 

"Maggie,  I  think  it  was,"  said  Delia. 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  winced  at  the  name,  but  her  confusion 
was  masked  by  the  reception  of  her  brother.  Carmody 
could  roar  down  a  board  meeting  of  financial  Titans, 
but  he  was  roaring  very  small  here.  He  was  under  the 
scrutiny  of  people  who  had  seen  him  as  a  gawky  young 
buck,  and  he  did  not  know  how  to  act. 

Michael  was  shy  with  him,  and  gladly  passed  him  on  to 
the  highest  dignitary  present: 

"You  remimber  Patrick  McMurtha? — Judge  McMurtha 
he  is  now." 

"Indeed  I  do!"  said  Carmody,  bluffing  to  hide  his 
chagrin.  "He  had  me  before  him  on  those  trust  investi 
gations.  He  ironed  me  out." 

McMurtha  smiled  up  with  a  downward  grace.  "  I  hope 
you  are  not  still  suffering  the  same  appalling  loss  of  memory 
that  afflicted  you  on  the  witness  stand." 

Carmody  laughed  with  more  comfortable  depreciation, 
"I'm  better  now." 

"He  had  iver  a  bad  memory,"  said  Michael,  also  recov 
ering  with  an  effort.  "I  loaned  him  ten  shillin'  on  the 
boat  out.  I've  not  had  it  back  yet." 

Carmody  grinned.  "With  interest  it  would  be  about  a 
million  now.  I'll  turn  my  business  over  to  you." 

This  put  Michael  in  a  position  where  he  could  be 
genial. 

"Ah,  it's  little  changed  you  are,  Mat." 

"You  think  not?" 

169 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"Well,  you  hadn't  that,"  said  Michael,  as  he  smote 
Carmody  in  his  capitalistic  paunch. 

Carmody  grunted  and  retorted  with  a  punch  in  kind. 
"And  you  never  brought  that  out  of  the  old  country." 

Seeing  blows  passing  already,  Delia  intervened,  for 
dignity's  sake.  "How  are  you,  Mr.  Carmody?" 

"My  first  name  is  Mat,  Delia,"  said  the  great  man, 
"and  I  wish  I  were  as  well  as  you  look." 

Michael  glowed  with  incandescent  pride.  "  Delia  hasn't 
changed,  do  you  think?" 

Carmody  had  enough  native  grace  left  to  respond,  "Not 
a  bit,  except  for  the  better,  if  that  could  be." 

Delia  flushed.  "You  were  ever  to  the  fore  with  the 
treacle.  I  wonder  you  never  married." 

Carmody  rose  handsomely  to  this.  He  groaned,  * '  When 
Michael  got  you  away  from  me,  I  felt  there  was  nothing 
left  for  me  but  work." 

Michael  interposed  now:  "This  flirtation  is  growin'  dis- 
respectable.  I  want  you  should  meet  me  mother.  Mother 
honey,  two  very  old,  ancient  friends  of  ours."  He  gath 
ered  the  brother  and  sister  Carmodys  in.  "Mrs.  Van 
Dusen,  me  mother;  me  mother,  Mrs.  Van  Dusen." 

"Did  he  say  Van  Dusen?"  said  Bridget. 

Miss  Carmody-as-was  had  once  been  very  haughty 
about  her  new  name,  but  she  felt  called  upon  to  apolo 
gize  for  it  here. 

"Oh,  that's  my  poor  husband's  name.  I  was  a 
Carmody." 

The  excitement  of  the  family  about  the  coming  of  the 
Carmodys  had  rather  passed  over  old  Bridget's  drowsy 
head.  She  recurred  now  to  early  times:  "No  relation,  I 
suppose,  to  Red  Martin  Carmody  of  Lisdoonvarna?" 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  flinched  visibly  as  she  confessed, 
"Martin  Carmody  was  my  father." 

170 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

"Saints  alive!"  Bridget  keened.  ''Red  Martin  your 
father!  And  your  name's  Margaret!  You  wouldn't  be 
little  Maggie  Carmody?" 

Time  had  made  a  sarcasm  of  that  "little."  Mrs.  Van 
Dusen  moaned  from  an  ample  bosom,  "I  was  once." 

"Oh,  it's  well  I  remimber  you  now,"  Bridget  chuckled, 
like  a  witch.  "Your  people  was  poor — poor  even  for 
Lisdoonvarna,  where  a  man  with  a  hundred  pounds  saved 
would  be  a  millionaire  here." 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  said  Mrs.  Van  Dusen,  who  was  enjoying 
the  ordeal  less  and  less. 

"I  remimber  the  houseen  you  lived  in — a  little  cabin 
at  the  back  of  Godspeed.  And  I  remimber  when  you 
and  your  brother  put  out  to  cross  the  ocean  say.  I 
used  to  hold  your  mother's  hand  when  she  cried.  After 
a  long  while  she  began  to  get  money  from  America.  Most 
like  it  was  you  sint  it." 

"My  brother  and  I."  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  was  glad  to 
have  that  remembered  of  her  in  her  home  town. 

The  far-off  years  were  lighted  up  like  peaks  in  the  old 
crone's  memory,  though  the  valley-years  between  were 
thick  with  fog.  She  was  vividly  back  in  Lisdoonvarna 
now. 

"After  that  your  mother  had  tay  when  she  wanted  it 
and  the  old  man  smoked  himself  to  a  dried  herring.  He 
had  tobacco  always  and  to  give  away.  He  was  more 
popular.  They  died  happy  in  their  beds.  I  was  one  of 
those  that  waked  thim — heaven  be  their  portion." 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  felt  a  misery  of  guilt  now,  and  she 
sighed,  "I  always  meant  to  go  back  to  them  before  they — 
before  that — but — " 

"Manny  goes  from  Ireland,"  Bridget  said,  "but  not 
so  manny  comes  back.  Oh,  I  see  you  like  we  was  both 
there  again  and  five  and  thirty  years  rolled  off."  She 

171 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

began  to  snicker  uncannily.  "Little  Maggie  Carmody! 
Musha,  child  dear,  I'm  just  callin'  to  mind  the  time  I 
was  interferin'  bechune  you  and  one  of  your  father's  pigs. 
You  and  the  pig  was  fightin'  over  the  same  pitatie." 

"Oh,  great  heavens !" 

"Which  had  had  it  first  I  don't  know,"  Bridget  shrieked, 
"but  you  made  off  with  it." 

This  was  too  much — much!  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  had  left 
her  friends  at  the  opera  and  had  lied  to  them  elaborately 
in  order  to  get  away.  She  had  expected  the  discomfort 
of  grandeur  among  the  lowly,  but  to  be  so  haled  back 
into  the  dust  of  humiliation  was  more  than  she  was 
mortgaged  for. 

She  looked  for  her  brother,  who  had  drifted  aside  into 
a  colloquy  with  Michael. 

"Matthew  dear,"  she  said,  "we  must  go  now."  She 
explained  to  the  staring  company:  "You  see,  we  were  at 
the  opera  and  we  ran  away  just  to  say  hello.  We  prom 
ised  to  go  right  back.  Come  along,  Matthew  dear." 

But  Michael  waved  her  away.  "The  stories  we're 
tellin'  are  not  for  the  ladies." 

Delia's  big  heart  understood  something  of  Margaret's 
torture,  and,  seeing  her  stranded,  she  warmed  toward  her 
and  took  her  arm. 

"If  you  must  go,  don't  let  us  be  holding  you.  It  was 
nice  of  you  to  take  the  long  thrip  to  our  poor  home. 
It's  been  a  taste  of  honey  to  see  you.  You  was  always  the 
fairest  colleen  in  Lisdoovarna,  and  now  younger  than  ever." 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  was  pleased  in  spite  of  herself. 
"Young — look  at  my  hair,  Mrs.  Morahan." 

"The  white  of  it  is  that  becoming,  I'd  suspicion  you 
bleached  it,"  Delia  protested. 

"That's  very  sweet  of  you— Delia." 

Delia  was  not  satisfied  to  send  her  off  only  half  warmed. 

172 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

She  plied  the  compliments  like  generous  alms  to  a  hungry 
waif. 

"Small  wonder  the  rich  and  the  high  here  and  abroad 
should  be  payin'  court  to  you.  You  had  always  a  way 
of  bringin'  the  lads  to  your  feet." 

The  generosity  was  contagious. 

"You  got  Michael  away  from  me,"  said  Mrs.  Van 
Dusen. 

"Oh,  Michael!"  Delia  scoffed.  "It's  much  if  he's  not 
regrettin'  it,  now  that  he  sees  you." 

Unwittingly  Michael  walked  into  the  history  of  his 
own  conquest.  He  put  his  arm  around  Delia  and  took 
Mrs.  Van  Dusen's  exclusive  elbow,  to  say:  "Well,  Mag, 
ain't  Delia  here  the  wonder?  Younger  and  nater  than 
iver.  And  that  sweet  we've  niver  passed  a  cross  word. 
Have  we,  Delia?" 

"  Well,  I'd  hardly  say  that,"  Delia  had  to  admit. 

Michael  flared  instantly.  "Listen  at  her!  She's  always 
for  contradictin'  me.  Niver  a  word  can  I  say  but  she 
comes  at  me  with  the  back-slap."  He  calmed  down  as 
quickly:  "Ah,  but  she's  all  right.  And  so  young  actin' 
I  sometimes  suspicion  she's  not  the  mother  of  me  childer 
whativer." 

"Michael!"  Delia  protested. 

Michael  threw  his  other  arm  about  Mrs.  Van  Dusen's 
very  shoulders  now.  "You're  not  such  a  scarecrow  your 
self,  Maggie.  Say,  Maggie,  do  you  call  to  mind  the  time 
there  was  two  dances  the  one  night,  and  there  was  crowns 
cracked  because  you  couldn't  go  to  the  both  of  them 
with  different  lads?" 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  forgot  her  imoatience  to  depart. 

"No,  I've  forgotten.    Tell  me." 

Carmody  escaped  from  Mrs.  Giluley's  mournful  com 
pany  with  a  wrench  and  made  an  effort  at  retreat. 

173 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

"Margaret,  we'd  better  be  getting  back." 
"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Van  Dusen.     "I  can't  go  now. 
Michael  is  telling  me  a  story." 


Before  she  could  hear  the  pleasant  details  of  her  early 
prowess  Michael's  priest-son,  Father  Dermot,  came  in, 
and  introductions  had  to  be  made.  Before  Mrs.  Van 
Dusen  could  demand  the  story  again,  Kate's  husband, 
Floyd  O'Gara,  arrived  from  a  dance  where  he  had  been 
playing  the  pipes.  Here  was  an  artist  to  be  proud  of,  and 
Michael  forgot  Margaret's  needs  in  the  ceremony  of  pre 
senting  the  family  marvel  to  the  crowd. 

Judge  McMurtha  was  reminded  that  Killilea,  the  star 
of  the  evening,  had  not  yet  appeared.  Michael  was  not 
worried. 

"Perhaps  the  old  villain  has  stumbled  through  the 
wrong  door  and  can't  find  his  way  out  again.  Pipers 
have  long  throaths  on  them  and  they  go  easy  dry.  But 
if  it's  pipin'  you're  ready  for,  me  son-in-law  has  few 
supariors  and  no  aquals.  Floydeen,  oblige  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  with  a  few  choice  screeches." 

Judge  McMurtha  was  not  eager  to  have  his  client 
anticipated.  Sparring  for  time,  he  said: 

"But  before  we  have  the  piper,  where  is  that  speech 
you  promised  to  deliver  to  celebrate  the  occasion?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Michael,  "I  did  promise.  And  I'll 
feel  aisier  for  gettin'  it  off  me  chesht." 

He  coughed  ferociously:  "Ladies  and  Irishmen,  hold 
your  noise,  if  ye  can.  In  commimoration  of  this  suspicious 
occasion  [laughter],  I  have  prepared  a  little  address  in 
commimoration  of  this  suspicious  occasion."  [Groans.]  He 
began  to  search  his  pockets  as  he  felt  his  line  slipping. 

174 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

"I — er — as  I  stairted  to  remairk,  in  commima —  Delia, 
for  the  love  of  Peter,  what  did  ye  do  with  the  oration? " 

Delia  gasped:  "That  wasn't  your  oration  on  the  type 
writing  paper!" 

"It  was.     I  had  it  wrote  out  special." 

"Oh,  the  saints  shield  us!"  Delia  wailed.  "I  thought 
it  was  a  circular  for  a  patent  lineament  and  I  sint  it  down 
the  doomb- waiter." 

Michael  opened  his  mouth  for  a  tempest,  but  decided 
to  spare  Delia  for  the  sake  of  the  party.  He  al 
most  brought  on  a  stroke  with  his  self-control  before 
he  could  say,  "Ladies  and  gintry,  it  havin'  just  come 
to  me  ears  that  me  oration  in  commimoration  of  this 
commimoration  has  gone  down  the  doomb-waiter,  I  will 
go  whistle  to  that  Scandinavian  scandal  in  the  basement 
and  see  has  he  sint  it  off  with  the  gairbage.  While  I 
am  gone  Miss  Rosie  McMurtha,  the  talented  daughter 
of  a  talented  father,  will  recite —  What  will  you  recite, 
Rosie?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  recite  anything,"  Rosie  fluttered. 

Judge  McMurtha  was  stupidly  honest  enough  to  ex 
claim,  "Why,  Rosie,  you  asked  me  yourself  if  you 
mightn't." 

Rosie  transfixed  him  with  a  barbed  glance  as  she  giggled, 
"But  I'd  rather  not,  with  everybody  looking." 

"Ah,  go  on,  Rosie,"  Shamus  urged.  "It's  grand,  I'm 
sure." 

"Oh,  I— I  don't  feel  in  the  mood." 

"Spit  it  out,  darlint,"  Michael  insisted,  "there's  a  good 
girl." 

Rosie  acquiesced:  "Oh,  well,  all  right.  I'm  not  a  very 
good  reciter,  though." 

"We  know  that,  dearie.  We've  all  heard  you." 
Michael  meant  to  whisper  that  to  Carmody,  but  his  full 

175 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

voice  slipped  out.  Rosie  flung  a  murderous  look  his  way. 
He  left  the  room  and  she  piped  in  childish  treble  the 
sonorous  classic,  "The  Fighting  Race"  by  J.  I.  C.  Clarke, 
with  its  stout  refrain,  "Kelley  and  Burke  and  Shea." 

As  she  recited,  Michael  could  be  heard  in  the  kitchen 
blowing  the  whistle  and  calling  down  the  shaft  in  an  al 
tercation  with  the  janitor.  Nothing  could  have  saved 
the  poem  from  slaughter  in  Rosie's  little  voice,  but 
Michael's  ferocity  did  not  help.  Still,  everybody  knew 
the  poem,  anyway,  so  small  harm  was  done. 

Before  the  end  of  the  recitation  Michael  returned  and 
went  right  on  with  his  explanations  in  spite  of  Delia's 
frantic  gestures  and  Rosie's  confusion.  Said  Michael: 

"That  Scandihoovian  hyena  says  he  put  me  speech  in 
the  furnace  hours  past." 

He  felt  the  radiator. 

"  Yes,  he  did.  I  can  feel  my  speech  warmin'  the  bronze. 
Fine  for  you,  Rosie." 

Rosie  retired  in  chagrin  to  the  solaces  of  Myles  and 
Shamus. 

Judge  McMurtha,  as  master  of  ceremonies,  spoke  up: 

"The  next  number  will  be  a  solo  on  the  violin  by  Father 
Dermot  Morahan,  accompanied  by  a  solo  on  the  voice 
by  Michael's  other  son,  Shamus,  with  his  daughter  Kate 
at  the  piano." 

Michael  glowed  with  patriarchal  pride.  "Go  on,  Katie, 
whale  the  lights  out  of  the  piano.  What's  two  dollars  to  me. ' ' 

This  trio  suffered  from  a  tripartite  disagreement  as  to 
pitch,  rhythm,  and  interpretation,  complicated  by  the 
entrance  of  Shane  O'Mealia,  who  brought  a  load  of  care 
with  him.  He  asked  his  aunt  Delia  where  his  wife  was, 
and  she  indicated  the  kitchen  with  her  thumb.  Shane 
hastened  out  joyously,  and  came  back  almost  at  once, 
slowly  and  sad. 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

He  had  the  look  of  conspicuous  vivacity  a  man  as 
sumes  after  an  eviction  at  his  wife's  hands.  Shane  sat 
down  near  Michael,  who  was  reminded  of  his  promise. 

He  took  Carmody  by  the  knee  and  Shane  by  the 
lapel,  and  introduced  them.  He  was  deafly  oblivious  to 
the  music  and  blind  to  the  remonstrant  glances  of  his 
son,  the  priest,  as  he  said : 

"Mat,  this  Shane  felly  is  more  like  one  of  me  own 
sons  than  a  newy  by  marriage.  He  has  just  resigned 
a  fine  position.  He's  considherin'  others,  but,  being  as 
he's  free  for  to-night,  I'd  like  to  do  you  a  favor,  Mat, 
for  ould  time's  sake,  so  I  advise  you  to  grab  him  quick. 
The  boy's  a  janius.  He  holds  the  records  in  jobs,  and 
if  you're  as  wise  as  you  try  to  look,  you'll  ingage  him  for 
a  position  before  you  lave  the  room." 

"I  should  be  glad  to  at  some  future  time,"  said 
Carmody;  "at  the  present  moment  I  have  no  vacancy." 

"It's  in  your  head  you  have  one  if  you  poshepone 
snappin'  up  this  young  Napoleon,  and  in  your  heart  a 
vacancy  if  you  pass  by  Delia's  own  sister's  own  son." 

"All  right,  I'll  make  a  place  somewhere,"  said  Car 
mody.  "Come  and  see  me  to-morrow,  Mr.  O'Mealia." 

Shane  tried  to  keep  from  looking  like  a  rescuee  from 
drowning.  He  promised  to  oblige  Mr.  Carmody  on  the 
morrow,  and  hastened  to  the  kitchen  again  with  a  new 
zest.  He  came  back  shortly  with  his  old  gloom. 

Father  Dermot,  Shamus,  and  Kate  finished  their  trio 
now,  and  the  audience  made  up  in  applause  for  what 
it  owed  in  attention. 

Judge  McMurtha  rose  to  push  through  his  program. 

"The  next  on  the  program  is  a  double  jig  by  Senator- 
elect  Giluley  and  his  charming  wife." 

Michael  had  a  suggestion.  "And  me  son-in-law,  Mr. 
O'Gara,  will  oblige  with  the  pipes.  Won't  you,  Floyd?" 

177 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Floyd,  and  he  made  ready.  He 
played  a  double  jig  and  the  Giluleys  danced,  he  limping 
with  rheumatism,  she  holding  her  throbbing  jaw. 

Michael  whispered  to  Carmody,  "That  would  do 
mighty  well  at  an  undertakers'  convention.  Do  you 
remember  the  dances  we  danced  at  the  patterns  in 
Lisdoonvarna?" 

"Do  I?  Wasn't  I  the  champion?"  Carmody  bragged. 
And  Michael  flared  up: 

"You  a  champion,  you  ould  handless  bosthoon!  I 
could  dance  you  down  with  one  foot." 

"Could  you,  now?"  said  Carmody.  "And  since 
when?" 

"Since  now!"  cried  Michael.  Carmody  tried  to  end 
the  matter  with  a  magnificent  disdain,  but  Michael's 
blood  was  up  and  he  challenged  Carmody  to  a  show 
down.  Carmody  thought  of  his  fat  and  shook  his  head, 
but  Michael,  reading  his  mind,  said,  "We're  both  car- 
ryin'  weight  for  age.  Come  on  now,  or  ate  your  words." 

The  crowd  began  to  plead  for  a  dance-duel,  to  insist 
with  violence.  And  Michael's  swagger  was  so  provoca 
tive  that  it  was  harder  for  Carmody  to  stand  on  his  dig 
nity  than  to  risk  its  destruction.  At  last  he  rose,  like 
a  martyr.  He  caught  the  horrified  eye  of  Mrs.  Van 
Dusen,  but  it  was  not  his  nature  to  back  out  of  an  under 
taking. 

He  was  greeted  with  loud  cheers  when  he  stood  up. 
The  guests  divided  at  once  into  two  factions,  the  Car- 
modites  and  the  Morahaneers,  and  the  partisans  grew 
quickly  as  frantic  as  lifelong  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines. 

"Mr.  O'Gara  will  oblige  with  music,  of  course,"  said 
Michael,  "and  for  all  he's  my  son-in-law,  he'll  play  fair, 
I'm  certain  sure.  And  do  you  happen  to  know  a  good 

slip  jig?" 

178 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

"Manny  a  one,"  said  O'Gara.  "There's  'A  Blast  of 
Wind,'  'Give  Us  a  Drink  of  Water,'  'Top  the  Candle'—" 

Michael  shook  his  head  at  each  suggestion.  "What 
was  the  one  old  Killilea  was  so  grand  at?  He  wrote  it 
himself." 

"Was  it  'Strap  the  Razor'?"  said  Judge  McMurtha. 

"Nah!"  said  Michael.     The  judge  tried  again: 

"Was  it  'When  Sick,  Is  It  Tea  You  Want'?" 

"No  more  that,  but —  Ah,  where's  me  brain  gone? 
The  divil  sail  away  with  me  mimory." 

O'Gara  spoke  up,  "Was  it,  by  any  chance,  called  'Life 
in  Lisdoonvarna'?" 

"That's  it!"  cried  Michael.  "You're  the  boy  for  us. 
Play  it." 

"I  don't  know  it,"  said  O'Gara. 

"Be  all  the  goats  in  Ireland,  why  don't  you?" 

"Old  Killilea  was  that  jealous  of  it,  he  would  niver 
write  it  out  nor  lave  anny  other  piper  hear  it.  I  heard 
it  from  a  distance  once.  It's  gone  from  me  now."  He 
skirled  a  jaunty  little  phrase  on  the  pipes  and  stopped. 

"You  have  it,"  cried  Michael.     "Go  along  with  it!" 

"I'm  not  sure  of  whayre  it  goes  from  thayre,"  said 
O'Gara,  tying  his  forehead  in  knots  as  he  wrestled  with 
his  memory. 

Michael  was  champing  the  bit  and  pawing  the  ground. 
"Well,  play  what  you  can,  and  what  you  can't  remimber 
play  annyway.  Come  on,  Mat.  Mother  honey,  would 
ye  mind?"  He  rolled  her  chair  to  one  side,  while  Mc 
Murtha  cleared  the  table  and  the  chairs  were  hustled 
back  to  the  wall.  Then  Carmody,  wishing  he  had  stayed 
at  the  opera,  was  pushed  into  the  arena,  and  Michael 
cried,  "Begin  to  commince." 

O'Gara  began  to  play;  the  two  big  men  began  to 
whisper  with  their  toes  mysterious  rhythms  punctuated 

13  179 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

by  their  heels.  Carmody's  feet  surprised  him  by  remem 
bering  boyhood  clog-tricks,  and  the  native  zest  resumed  its 
sway.  But  he  was  still  a  bit  hazy  and  he  stopped  with 
a  shake  of  the  head:  "There's  something  wrong  some 
where." 

"The  divil's  in  it,"  Michael  agreed.  Then:  "Oh,  I 
know!  We  always  danced  it  on  a  door." 

Carmody  nodded  eagerly.  "That's  right.  Too  bad  we 
haven't  a  door."  And  he  moved  to  a  chair. 

Michael  checked  him:  "Who  says  we  have  no  door? 
We  have  manny  of  thim  flappin'  useless.  Here,  lind  a 
hand." 

At  his  direction  Myles  and  Shamus  completely  un 
hinged  a  closet  door  and  lowered  it  to  the  carpet.  Michael 
stepped  on  it  and  smote  a  hole  through  a  panel  with  the 
first  salvo  of  his  heels.  Carmody  breathed  a  silent, 
"Saved  again!"  but  Michael  would  not  be  denied;  he 
found  a  stout  door  from  the  kitchen  to  the  back  stairway 
and  had  it  dismounted  and  set  above  the  other.  It  stood 
the  preliminary  test,  and  he  beckoned  Carmody  to  come 
and  take  his  medicine. 

Michael  ridiculed  Carmody  outrageously,  shouting  as 
he  pounded: 

"If  you'd  used  your  feet  for  writin'  cheques,  they'd 
fly  faster.  Stand  on  your  hands  and  see  can  you  do 
betther.  Is  it  an  ilephant  that's  dancin*  or  a  rhinoc- 
eroose?  I  don't  know."  He  was  puffing  horribly  himself . 

There  was  little  to  commend  the  contest  except  the 
intention.  Age  and  adiposity  could  be  imagined  off  men 
tally,  but  not  danced  away.  The  music  of  O'Gara  was 
a  thing  of  fits  and  starts,  most  of  them  wrong.  He  gave 
the  old  lads  no  help  with  his  irregularities,  for  Irish  dance 
music  is  innocent  of  syncopation. 

In  the  midst  of  O'Gara's  noisy  blunders  there  was  a 

180 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

pounding  on  the  front  door  that  outclattered  the  racket 
of  the  dancers. 

"It's  the  police!"  Delia  cried.  "I  knew  you'd  bring 
them!  Let  you  open  the  door,  Katie,  before  they  club 
it  down !" 

Mrs.  Van  Dusen  went  to  her  brother's  side  and  groaned: 
"To  be  caught  in  a  raid!  The  crowning  touch!" 


VI 

When  Kate  reached  the  door,  with  her  eyes  prepared 
for  police,  she  thought  she  was  bewitched  by  the  more 
fearsome  sight  she  saw  instead — a  blind  and  bent  old 
goblin  with  a  stick  in  one  hand  and  a  long  green  bag 
under  his  other  arm.  He  was  led  by  a  terrified-looking 
young  man,  whom  he  deserted  at  once  as  he  pushed 
straight  for  Floyd  O'Gara  and  his  music. 

"Who  is  it  that  dares  murdher  my  music?"  he  shrieked. 
"Lade  me  to  him  while  I  crack  his  scurrilous  pipes  over 
his  crown.  Where  is  he,  I  say?"  He  made  a  great 
swinge  with  his  stick  and  everybody  retreated,  O'Gara 
gliding  out  of  reach  and  insinuating  himself  behind  the 
piano. 

McMurtha  moved  forward.  "Come  in,  Mr.  Killilea, 
and  welcome!" 

Killilea  greeted  him  with  upraised  stick.  "Was  it  you, 
you  villyin?"  When  the  stick  came  down  the  judge  was 
back  in  his  place. 

Michael  put  on  a  bold  front:  "Well,  if  you  don't  like 
the  way  the  music  is  afther  bein'  executed,  murdher  it 
yourself." 

Old  Killilea  laughed  craftily.  ' '  Aye,  and  let  the  thievin' 
knave  steal  the  rest  of  it,  eh?  Divil  a  much  I  like  that." 

Judge  McMurtha  put  off  fear  and  put  on  his  most 

181 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

judicial  tone:  "Calm  down,  Killilea,  and  behave  yourself, 
or  I'll  send  you  up  for  disturbing  the  peace." 

"Me  disthurbin'  the  pace,  is  it  ?"  Killilea  howled.  "And 
what  of  the  silly  gandher  that's  butcherin'  my  pretty 
melodies?  I'll  sind  him  up  sky-high!"  He  began  to 
cudgel  the  floor  again  and  would  not  be  appeased.  Hear 
ing  all  the  clamor,  Moyna  had  stolen  to  the  dining-room 
door.  She  came  forward  a  little  to  Mrs.  Morahan  and 
whispered: 

"Who's  that?  It  isn't  the  old  piper  from  Lisdoon- 
varna?" 

"It's  him  or  his  fetch,"  said  Delia. 

Moyna  forgot  her  red  eyes  and  her  feud  with  Shane,  at 
the  sight  of  her  old  kinsman.  She  ran  to  him  with  a 
tender  hand  and  voice:  "Uncle  Dinny,  this  is  Moyna. 
Don't  you  remember  me — me  that  you  taught  to  dance 
when  I  was  but  a  young  thing?" 

The  old  man  put  his  bludgeon  under  the  arm  that  held 
his  pipes  and  ran  his  learned  fingers  over  the  rosy  young 
face.  He  mumbled:  " I  call  to  mind  the  look  of  Moyna. 
That  I  do.  My  fingers  remimber  the  face  of  you,  but 
grown  bigger,  and  your  voice  is  taller  than  it  was." 

"It's  the  same  Moyna,  Uncle  Dinny,  only  no  longer  a 
girl.  It's  an  old  woman  with  a  heart  of  rusty  iron." 

Her  words  were  bitter,  but  she  was  wondrous  happy  at 
finding  some  one  of  her  own  kith  in  this  foreign  land.  She 
hugged  the  old  man's  arm  to  her  side,  and  he  laughed. 

"Ah,  but  it  was  you  could  thrip  it.  At  the  patterns 
I  could  tell  your  feet  from  all  the  rest.  I  would  rather 
than  a  hundred  crowns  hear  you  futtin'  it  now.  Truth,  I 
could  niver  tell  whether  it  was  you  dancin'  or  the  rain 
pattherin'." 

Moyna  was  in  a  mood  to  enjoy  her  sorrow.     She  pouted. 

"I  don't  dance  any  more,  Uncle  Dinny.  I  haven't 

182 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

danced  since  you  took  off  with  yourself  from  Lisdoon- 
varna." 

The  time-beaten  oldster  was  also  comforted  strangely 
to  find  a  bit  of  bis  own  family  in  the  wilderness.  He  mut 
tered  in  Moyna's  ear:  "Whisper,  Moyna!  if  you'll  dance 
me  a  little  dance,  I'll  play  you  the  tune  they're  all  tryin' 
for  to  thieve  off  me.  I'll  play  it  soft  and  confidintial  like 
and  you  shall  dance  in  a  whisper  on'y  for  me." 

Everybody  made  motions  to  her  to  accept  the  proffer, 
but  she  moaned,  "Oh,  thank  you  kindly,  Uncle  Dinny, 
but  the  lead  in  me  heart  is  solid  to  me  feet." 

Michael  whispered  shrilly  at  her:    "Go  on!    Go  on!" 

Killilea  lifted  his  head.     "What's  that  they're  saying?" 

"Pay  no  heed  to  them,"  said  Moyna. 

"Come  alone  with  you,  then.  Had  I  a  chair,  I'd  rest 
me  four  bones." 

Michael  slipped  a  chair  under  him. 

Killilea  beamed  and  nodded.  "Thank  you  kindly, 
Moyna.  Now  had  we  but  a  door  to  lay  out  on  the  grass." 

"There's  a  door  here,"  said  Moyna,  in  a  yielding 
humor. 

"Then  shtep  aboard,"  bade  the  piper,  "and  imagine  the 
door  is  a  drop  of  the  dew  on  a  small  little  rosebud,  and 
you're  Wan  of  Thim  dancin'  in  the  blue  moonlight." 

She  was  not  cruel  enough  to  oppose  him  and  she  was  a 
bit  wishful  on  her  own  account  to  dance  out  her  heart. 
She  grew  impatient  even  of  the  fuss  he  made  getting  his 
pipes  from  the  sack  and  fastened  about  him  and  pumped 
up.  At  last  he  began  to  play  slowly  in  a  minor  scale  with 
an  urging  cadence.  And  she  began  to  foot  it  timidly  on 
the  door. 

"Dance!"  he  shouted.  "Let  me  hear  you  that  can't 
see  you." 

Her  fleet  feet  began  to  warm  and  flutter  and  his  music 

183 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

warmed  with  them.  Up  and  down  the  range  his  melodies 
skipped,  hopped,  and  glided,  and  the  prattle  of  her  nimble 
shoes  both  answered  and  evoked  his  skill. 

She  looked  so  winsome  as  she  drifted  back  and  forth 
along  the  door,  hands  on  hip  or  up  in  air  or  arms  akimbo, 
skirts  aswirl,  and  feet  like  the  hammers  of  a  xylophone, 
that  her  husband  Shane  forgot  to  sulk  and,  assured  that 
she  who  was  so  fair  could  not  be  cold,  he  went  forward 
to  her  and  put  out  his  hand  and  cooed,  "  Acushla!" 

"No!"  said  Moyna,  and  stopped  dancing. 

' '  For  why  do  you  stop  ? ' '  cried  Killilea.  ' '  Dance !  Let 
me  hear  the  rain." 

Moyna's  feet  resumed  their  showering  graces,  but  she 
turned  her  back  on  her  suitor.  He  stood  a  moment  dis 
consolate,  then  walked  round  the  door  to  the  other  side. 
She  turned  her  face  from  him  in  the  reverse  of  the  practice 
of  the  sunflower  according  to  Tom  Moore,  Esq.  Shane 
flushed,  bit  his  lip,  watched  her  dance  longingly,  till  his 
own  feet  began  to  twitch.  He  began  to  dance  on  the 
carpet.  He  ventured  to  step  to  the  door;  she  danced 
away  from  him.  He  danced  after  with  a  pantomime  of 
pleading.  She  was  less  and  less  angrily  defiant,  then 
taunting,  alluring,  evading.  She  began  to  set  him  steps 
to  copy.  He  was  a  broth  of  a  boy  on  his  feet  and  she 
could  make  no  fool  of  him.  He  compelled  her  admiration 
of  his  dance-lore.  He  made  so  bold  as  to  hand  her  a  few 
steps  to  imitate.  He  had  the  advantage  of  metropolitan 
training.  While  she  had  been  dancing  at  occasional  coun 
tryside  patrons  he  had  seen  the  great  clog-masters  of  the 
world  developing  the  art  to  incredible  agilities  on  the  New 
York  stages. 

He  had  Moyna  thoroughly  whipped  out  before  long,  and 
that  was  the  way  she  liked  to  have  him  have  her.  She 
hated  him  when  he  was  weak,  and  wanted  him  superior. 

184 


AT   THE    BACK   OF   GODSPEED 

Her  instinct  was  right  enough,  and  it  was  for  his  own 
good  that  she  should  discourage  him  into  courage.  She 
made  a  gesture  of  surrender  and  of  homage  and  let  him 
seize  her  in  his  arms  before  the  whole  company. 

They  stopped  dancing,  but  old  Killilea  was  at  fever 
heat  now  and  he  shouted  for  Moyna  to  go  on.  He  invited 
everybody  to  dance,  and,  like  his  protopiper  of  Hamelin, 
he  played  a  tyrannical  tune  that  could  not  be  disobeyed. 
He  led  his  own  sacred  melodies  by  little  degrees  into  a 
tune  that  everybody  began  to  guess  at,  to  recognize,  and 
finally  with  one  voice  and  many  feet  to  hail  as  "The 
Rocky  Road  to  Dublin." 

Shy  little  Floyd  O'Gara  was  quickened  to  courage. 

"That's  as  much  mine  as  his.  I  was  dandled  to  that  as 
a  baby."  He  crept  forward  to  a  chair  and  began  to 
tootle  his  own  pipes. 

Old  Killilea  did  not  frown,  but  laughed  and  challenged 
him  to  a  race. 

The  spring  wind  was  changing  to  a  summer  storm. 

Delia  put  Dermot's  violin  in  his  hand.  He  tuned  it 
hastily  and  joined  in  the  jig.  Rosie  McMurtha  began  to 
sing  the  air  with  a  girlish  zest.  Kate  dropped  to  the 
piano  stool  and  battered  the  chords  with  a  will.  Shamus 
and  Myles  dashed  out  and  returned,  one  with  a  flute  and 
one  with  a  cornet,  and  wood  began  to  whistle  and  brass 
to  chant. 

The  spectators  were  unable  to  restrain  an  impulse  to 
yelp  like  Indians.  Their  feet  ran  away  with  them. 
Michael  snatched  at  Delia  and  whirled  her  to  the  door, 
shoving  Moyna  and  Shayne  to  the  carpet,  Michael 
howling: 

"Take  yourselves  off  and  make  way  for  the  younger 
gineration." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Giluley  gave  evidence  of  a  miraculous 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

cure.  They  charged  on  the  door  with  a  contempt  for 
such  bogies  as  rheumatism  and  neuralgia. 

Carmody  laid  hold  of  Mrs.  McDwyer  and  Mr.  McDwyer 
formed  a  partnership  with  Mrs.  O'Rahilly.  Myles  and 
Shamus  fought  an  Arcadian  battle  about  Rosie  McMurtha. 
The  rest  of  the  mob  broke  into  a  panic.  Everybody 
galloped  and  frisked  and  flung,  leaped  and  sidled.  The 
music  raged,  the  musicians  danced  where  they  stood. 
Kate  danced  where  she  sat.  The  floor  and  the  door 
snapped  and  sizzled  like  a  gigantic  popcorn-popper  over 
a  brisk  fire. 

Judge  McMurtha  tried  in  vain  to  remember  his  dignity. 
Mrs.  Van  Dusen  was  bitterly  regretting  her  aristocracy  and 
her  other-worldliness.  The  peasantry  in  her  blood  began 
to  boil  again.  The  girlhood  of  old,  ancient  times  derided 
the  alien  veneer  of  foreign  customs.  Her  toes  began  to 
tingle  and  tap  the  floor.  Her  fingers  jigged  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair,  and  when  at  length  Justice  McMurtha  cast 
responsibility  to  the  winds  of  returning  April,  let  out  a 
whoop  of  boyish  self-abandonment,  and  came  capering 
before  her  like  a  young  faun  in  the  ridiculous  disguise  of 
an  old  judge,  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a 
hoydenish : 

"Hurroo!" 

She  caught  up  her  skirts  knee-high  and  went  sidling  and 
clogging.  The  muffling  of  the  carpet  so  hampered  her 
reviving  virtuosity  that  she  skipped  to  the  door  and 
cleared  it  of  her  rivals.  She  did  not  know  that  the  rest 
had  stopped  dancing  to  gape  at  her;  or  if  she  knew  she 
did  not  care. 

The  ice  had  not  broken  in  her  heart.  It  had  not  found 
time.  It  had  suddenly  fumed  into  steam. 

When  at  last  she  sank  into  a  chair,  gasping  and  smother 
ing  and  streaming  with  honest  sweat  and  aching  with 

186 


AT   THE    BACK   OF    GODSPEED 

laughter  and  hilarious  toil,  she  was  not  shamed,  but  de 
lighted,  that  the  panting  Michael  groaned: 

"Well,  of  all  the  ixhibitions  I  iver  did  see,  Mag  Car- 
mody,  yours  was  the  most  disgracefully  graceful." 

And  she  cried,  "You  flatther  me!" 


VII 

The  Schuylers  at  the  opera  had  kept  wondering  why 
Mr.  Carmody  and  his  sister  did  not  come  back.  The 
opera  dragged  out  its  harmonious  length  and  the  last 
curtain  fell,  and  they  had  not  returned.  When  Mrs. 
Schuyler  reached  her  home  she  telephoned  Mrs.  Van 
Dusen's  home  to  inquire  if  she  were  ill.  A  sleepy,  re 
sentful  butler  informed  her  that  she  had  not  arrived. 

"I  hope  she  hasn't  had  a  motor  accident,"  said  Mrs. 
Schuyler. 

When,  along  about  2  A.M.,  young  Mr.  Van  Dusen 
stole  into  the  house,  the  butler  told  him  of  Mrs.  Schuy- 
ler's  anxiety  and  her  hope.  The  young  man  fretted  and 
wondered.  He  called  up  the  police  and  a  hospital  or  two 
to  ask  if  any  disasters  had  been  reported.  There  was 
no  record  of  any  that  involved  his  hitherto  respectable 
mother,  who  had  never  got  into  the  papers  for  anything 
more  distressful  than  a  reception  or  a  dinner. 

The  daybreak  and  Mrs.  Van  Dusen  came  to  the  house 
together.  When  the  pale  young  man,  in  such  a  bath 
robe  as  a  Roman  emperor  might  have  worn,  stood  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  and  saw  her  come  dragging  her 
heavy  feet  up  the  steps,  he  noted  her  general  look  of 
dishevelment,  and  ran  down  to  her,  groaning : 

"Mother,  what  happened?  Were  you  in  a  collision 
or  something?" 

He  was  dazed  by  her  answer: 

187 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"No,  me  boy,  I'm  on'y  after  takin'  a  flyin'  thrip  to 
the  old  counthry." 

"In  Heaven's  name,  mother,"  he  gasped,  "where  did 
you  pick  up  that  funny  accent?" 

"Just  where  I  left  it,  darlin'." 

He  was  genuinely  terrified.  "But,  mother,  why  should 
you  come  home  with  a  brogue?" 

"Why  wouldn't  I?    Amn't  I  Irish?" 

"But' I  don't  understand." 

"How  could  you?  And  you  half  Dutch,  you  poor  little 
misfortunate  bouchaleen." 

He  spoke  to  her  sternly,  "Mother,  where  on  earth  have 
you  been?" 

"Home  to  the  little  cabin  at  the  back  of  Godspeed." 

He  helped  her  up  the  stairs,  and  he  was  very  anxious, 
because  she  was  giggling  mysteriously  like  a  girl.  But 
suddenly  she  sat  down  on  the  top  step  in  the  dim  hall 
where  the  watery  light  of  dawn  wavered  in  conflict  with 
the  tiny  electric  stars,  and  she  groaned : 

"Och,  meal-a-murder!  I'm  givin'  a  reciption  this  af- 
thernoon  to  a  whole  world  of  people,  and  niver  a  soul 
invited  from  Lisdoonvarna!" 


VII 

CANAVAN 

THE    MAN    WHO    HAD    HIS    WAY 

I 

EVEN  the  horses  were  snobs.  They  swaggered  along 
the  avenue  with  noses  so  high  in  air  that  the  short 
check-reins  hung  slack  on  their  haughty  necks.  Whether 
or  not  the  street-sweeper  got  out  from  under  their  spurn 
ing  hoofs  was  his  affair,  not  theirs.  On  the  box  the 
coachman  and  footman  looked  like  a  bishop  and  his 
coadjutor,  except  that,  as  the  whippletree  grazed  the 
dingy  street-cleaner,  the  coachman's  mouth  sagged  with 
an  unspoken  stable  word. 

In  the  swan-like  scoop  of  the  victoria  sat  a  young  man 
and  a  young  woman,  patrician  enough  to  loll  without  fear. 
The  girl — Miss  Beatrice  Newnes,  it  was — gave  a  gasp  as 
the  canvas-clad  scavenger  just  evaded  the  wheel-guard. 

She  was  angry  at  him  for  giving  her  little  heart  a  jolt. 
Her  horses  had  run  down  a  man  once  before,  and  her 
motor  had  bowled  over  a  dirty  newsboy  with  most 
unpleasant  results:  she  had  missed  an  engagement  at  her 
tailor's,  and  the  newspapers  had  published  her  name  and  a 
picture  of  her  that  was  badly  smudged  in  the  printing. 

"It's  outrageous  the  way  these  street-sweepers  dodge 
in  and  out,"  she  said  to  Rodman  Cadbury,  3d.  "We're 
never  safe  from  the  danger  of  knocking  one  of  them  over." 

189 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  said  Cadbury,  "that  they  think 
they  are  as  good  as  we  are." 

"Oh,  they  are  as  good — perhaps, ' '  she  smiled .  ' ' Better, 
I  hope — as  far  as  getting  to  heaven  and  all  that,  but — " 

"I've  no  doubt  that  if  they  get  there  they'll  be  set  to 
sweeping  the  golden  streets,"  said  Cadbury,  groaning  with 
the  labor  of  shifting  one  knee  over  another.  "The  worst 
of  it  is,  the  dogs  think  that  they  are  as  good  as  we  are 
Down  Here.  That  fellow  is  probably  wishing  he  dared 
heave  a  bit  of  Irish  confetti  at  us." 

But  the  fellow  in  the  once- was- white  suit  was  thinking 
nothing  of  the  sort.  He  was  dodging  another  carriage. 
The  escape  from  a  taxi- Juggernaut  followed  so  hard  upon 
the  elision  of  a  touring-car  that  each  adventure  crowded 
the  previous  one  out  of  his  mind. 

At  the  end  of  the  day,  as  he  trudged  home,  scorching  his 
thumb  over  his  clay  pipe,  he  sometimes  reviewed  what 
part  of  the  kaleidoscope  he  could  recall.  This  evening 
Canavan  remembered  his  escape  from  the  Newnes  horses, 
chiefly  because  he  had  recognized  the  footman  as  the  son 
of  the  aristocratic  Honan,  who  lived  on  the  ground  floor 
of  his  tenement.  Canavan  knew  that  Patsy  Honan 
worked  for  the  Newneses,  so  he  guessed  that  the  girl  in 
the  victoria  was  the  daughter  of  old  millionaire  Newnes. 

"That  Miss  Noons  is  a  bird,"  he  told  his  wife,  that 
evening ;  ' '  purty  as  a  pitcher. ' ' 

"Shut  up  and  ate  your  corn  beef,"  said  Mrs.  Honoria 
Canavan. 

The  street-cleaner  did  not  lay  aside  the  robe  of  humility 
when  he  took  off  his  white  wings.  In  the  street  he  was 
always  almost  run  over;  at  home  he  was  walked  upon, 
sat  upon,  kept  in  his  place.  He  was  not  so  old  as  he 
would  be  one  day  if  he  lived.  Indeed,  if  you  had  asked 
his  age  he  might  have  answered,  "  If  I  live  five  years  longer 

190 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

I'll  be  as  old  then  as  me  old  woman  is  now."  He  might 
have,  but  he  would  never  have  dared  so  to  betray  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Canavan  read  the  society  columns  of  the  Sunday 
papers  and  she  was  soon  asking : 

"What  did  she  have  on?" 

"Who?" 

' '  Miss  Noons,  of  course.     Who  else ?" 

"What  did  she  have  on,  did  you  say?" 

"Yis." 

"Clothes,  of  course — and  a  hat." 

"Ah,  you  loafer,  you!    What  kind  of  clothes?" 

"How  the  divil  should  I  know?     I'm  no  milliner." 

"The  man  who  was  with  her  was  probably  Mr.  Cad- 
bury — noomber  free — whatever  that  manes,"  said  Mrs. 
Canavan,  with  dignity.  "I'm  after  r'adin'  that  she's 
marryin'  'um  next  mont'.  Or  so  the  newspaper  says, 
and  it  knows  all  that's  goin'  on." 

"Marryin',  eh? — the  Lord  help  him — I  mean  her,"  he 
amended,  hastily,  as  his  wife  glared  his  way.  After  he 
had  pushed  his  pie-plate  aside,  and  she  had  dumped  the 
dishes  into  the  sink,  she  settled  back  to  read  the  last 
Sunday  supplement,  of  which  the  society  section  had  come 
round  the  fish  for  the  morrow,  which  was  Friday. 

Seeing  that  she  was  absorbed  in  the  doings  of  Upper- 
Tendom,  Canavan  timidly  slid  his  hand  to  his  hat  and 
percolated  through  the  door.  If  he  left  home  meekly, 
he  no  less  meekly  entered  the  back  room  of  the  shabby 
saloon  where  a  number  of  his  cronies  forgathered  of  eve 
nings,  and  made  a  merriment  of  which  he  was  a  timid 
spectator.  Among  the  humblest  he  was  still  humbler. 

And  so  he  lived  his  life  surreptitiously,  shunted  aside 
at  his  job,  at  his  home,  and  even  in  his  cups. 

But  one  day  Canavan  was  brought  home  in  a  clanging 
ambulance.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  at- 

191 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

tracted  so  much  attention.  It  is  true  they  had  refused 
him  the  glory  of  a  bed  at  the  hospital,  and  Mrs.  Canavan 
read  the  next  day's  papers  in  vain  to  find  a  line  about  him, 
but  the  whole  block  turned  out  to  see  him  carried  in 
horizontally,  feet  foremost;  and  the  many- windowed  walls 
of  the  street  were  a  berry-patch  of  heads. 

"  Well,  that  Noons  driver  got  me  at  last,  Honoria.  It's 
free  times  he's  after  missin'  me,"  was  Canavan's  apolo 
getic  exclamation  when  he  came  to. 

Mrs.  Canavan  was  glad  that,  if  her  man  had  to  be  run 
over,  he  had  chosen  something  aristocratic.  An  automo 
bile  would  have  been  sweller,  but  a  victoria  was  better 
than  a  dump-cart. 

Mrs.  Canavan  nursed  him  in  her  rough-handed  way, 
snarling  at  his  peevishness,  and  taking  for  her  standard 
the  theory  that  the  one  safe  way  was  to  refuse  everything 
he  asked.  When  she  tucked  him  in,  her  tenderness 
resembled  the  short-arm  jab  of  a  heavyweight,  but  there 
was  a  sympathetic  idea  behind  it,  and  he  found  a  luxury 
where  another  would  have  found  rigor. 

When  he  was  strong  enough  to  sit  up  and  spit  on  the 
stove,  Mrs.  Canavan  concluded  that,  being  as  the  girl  was 
growing  up  and  needing  more  clothes  and  the  boy  coming 
through  his  shoes  and  his  father's  pants  every  few  days, 
and  meat  going  up  every  week  in  price,  and  all,  it  would  be 
a  real  hardship  to  lose  Canavan  now.  Having  missed  his 
weekly  wage  for  a  month,  she  realized  his  importance  and 
decided  for  him  that  he  must  give  up  street-cleaning  and 
hunt  a  job  with  a  smaller  element  of  hazard.  Her  ukase 
dismayed  him  for  a  time,  as  street-cleaning  was  the  one 
trade  he  knew — if  he  knew  that;  but  his  ward  boss,  who 
would  soon  need  his  vote,  got  him  a  safer  place  with  a 
blasting  gang  on  the  subway  construction. 

Canavan's  job  was  to  shovel  and  pick,  here  and  there, 

192 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

while  the  drills  gnawed  holes  enough  in  the  rocks,  and  then 
to  stand  oft  and  wait  until  the  dynamite  had  boomed  and 
thudded.  Then  it  was  his  job  to  go  down  in  the  sweaty 
earth-wound  and  clear  out  the  shattered  rocks,  shoveling 
away  what  could  be  shoveled,  and  tearing  with  his  hands 
at  such  blade-edged  boulders  as  denied  the  spade. 

Canavan's  boss  was  unusually  harsh  with  him,  because 
he  was  as  meek  as  he  was  willing,  and  the  strength  in  him 
was  a  thing  he  had  not  discovered.  He  was  as  timid  and 
hulking  as  a  baby  Pantagruel.  Canavan  stood  every 
thing — bruises  till  his  hands  looked  like  ragged  gloves,  and 
curses  till  he  almost  lost  the  right  to  call  himself  an 
Irishman. 

Sometimes  as  he  straightened  the  creaking  thews  of  his 
back  he  would  look  with  envy  at  the  men  who  held  the 
red  flag  to  warn  people  and  horses  to  keep  their  distance 
when  the  blast  was  about  to  thunder. 

One  day  Sorahan,  one  of  the  flagmen,  did  not  turn  up. 
The  day  before,  his  step  had  been  so  unsteady  that  a 
friend  had  prophesied  the  return  of  one  of  his  "period 
icals,"  which  recurred  as  regularly  as  a  comet  and  boded 
nearly  as  much  ill  in  its  parabola. 

So  Canavan  was  detailed  as  flagman  for  the  nonce. 
The  standard  was  humble  at  best,  but  it  made  a  brave 
spot  of  color.  And  Canavan  loved  red.  And  then  the 
authority  of  it!  One  wave,  and  he  put  a  stop  to  the 
progress  of  traffic  of  every  sort;  high-toned  charioteers 
of  brewery  trucks,  precipitant  chauffeurs,  presidents  of 
corporations  and  parish  priests,  pushcarts  and  trolleys. 
Once  he  stopped  a  patrol-wagon!  He  almost  fainted  at 
theTsardomof  that! 

Ah,  but  Canavan  reveled  in  the  red  flag.  It  was  his 
first  sip  of  authority  over  other  men.  It  was  new  wine, 
fire  upon  the  palate  and  fume  upon  the  brain. 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Along  about  four  o'clock  the  Newnes  horses — no  less — 
came  clattering  eight-footedly  up.  Canavan  knew  those 
horses.  He  had  one  or  two  of  their  hoof-marks  still  on 
him  under  his  red-flannel  undershirt.  He  owed  them 
his  demise  from  the  White  Wings  and  his  shift  to  the 
blasting  profession. 

There  was  a  strange  joy  in  checking  the  Newnes  team, 
of  all.  The  coachman  was  for  driving  over  him,  as  usual, 
but  Canavan  whacked  one  of  the  steeds  over  his  haughty 
nose  and  brought  him  up  standing,  pawing  the  air. 

The  pretty  lady  leaned  out  and,  in  her  aristocratic 
way,  upbraided  the  coachman  and  the  footman  for  not 
hurrying  on.  The  sight  of  Patsy  Honan's  chagrin  was 
precious  ointment  in  Canavan 's  wound,  spikenard  to  his 
downtrodden  pride. 

The  coachman  humbly  explained  over  his  shoulder, 
with  a  military  salute,  that,  begging  her  pardon,  Miss,  he 
was  held  up  by  a  flagman. 

The  pretty  lady  turned  then  on  the  flagman  with  a 
shrill  volley  of  commands.  Canavan,  to  her  intense 
amazement — and  to  his — heard  himself  answering  her 
with  equal  hauteur. 

When  she  waxed  dictatorial  he  was  inspired  to  a  great 
speech  of  defiance.  The  language  was  1909,  but  the 
spirit  was  1798. 

' '  Ah,  go  chase  yourself !  I  don't  wear  your  dirty  livery, 
and  I  take  no  orders  from  the  likes  of  you." 

The  horrified  Miss  Newnes  ordered  the  coachman  to 
slash  the  dog  with  the  whip  and  drive  him  down,  but 
Canavan  simply  picked  up  a  chunk  of  jagged  granite  and 
promised  it  to  the  coachman  if  he  moved.  He  also  invited 
Patsy  Honan  to  come  down  from  the  box.  But  Patsy 
kept  his  arms  folded  in  assumed  disdain. 

And  then  the  dynamite  let  out  a  guttural  oath  some- 

194 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

where,  and  there  was  a  small  Vesuvius  of  rock  and  dirt. 
Whereupon  the  Newnes  horses  began  to  rear  and  plunge, 
Miss  Newnes  to  scream  and  cower.  Honan  leaped  to  the 
horses'  heads  by  Canavan's  permission. 

In  a  moment  the  eruption  was  over,  and  Canavan  low 
ered  his  flag  as  if  it  were  a  herald's  trumpet.  And  he 
sneered : 

"Git  back  to  yer  pulpit,  Patsy  Honan!  And  move  on 
wit'  your  baby-carriage!  You're  blockin'  the  way." 

There  was  a  royalty  about  it  that  only  an  Irishman  from 
the  loins  of  Brian  Boroihme  could  have  attained.  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac  would  have  improvised  a  sonnet  on  Canavan's 
gesture.  The  baffled  wrath  in  the  eyes  of  Patsy  Honan 
and  the  coachman  and  Miss  Beatrice  Newnes  was  the 
tribute  of  the  conquered.  And  they  passed  under  Can 
avan's  yoke. 

Canavan  enjoyed  the  incident  as  if  he  were  an  alley  cat 
fallen  in  a  barrel  of  catnip.  The  very  savor  of  it  in 
toxicated  him  for  hours,  days,  weeks. 

When  that  afternoon's  work  was  over  the  Canavan  who 
went  home  was  not  the  Canavan  who  had  left  that  morn 
ing.  You  could  have  told  it  by  the  cock  of  his  pipe. 

When  he  arrived  he  stalked  up-stairs  and  entered  with 
out  the  usual  treadmill  shuffle  on  the  door-mat.  Mrs. 
Canavan  ordered  him  to  take  his  dirty  feet  out  of  her 
kitchen.  Elate  with  authority,  Canavan  told  her  a  place 
to  go  to,  and  laid  his  coat  on  the  best  chair. 

Mrs.  Canavan  stared  at  him  in  a  stupor.  Her  glower  of 
inspection  showed  that  he  lacked  the  excuse  and  prerog 
ative  of  being  drunk.  She  went  for  him  with  the  mop. 
For  the  first  time  in  their  connubial  chronicle  he  did  not 
duck  and  dodge  for  the  door. 

He  received  the  mop  on  his  upraised  forearm,  wrenched 
it  from  her  brawny  clutch,  chucked  it  into  a  corner,  and 

14  195 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

proceeded  to  mop  up  the  apartment  with  Mrs.  Canavan. 
He  made  a  thorough  job  of  it. 

His  wife  was  too  deeply  astounded  to  resist.  It  was 
better  so,  for  had  she  shown  the  ardor  of  a  valkyr  he 
would  have  prevailed,  with  the  spirit  that  was  upon  him. 

It  was  not  a  pretty  fight,  but  it  was  lively  while  it 
lasted,  and  it  ended  with  Mrs.  Canavan  in  complete 
shipwreck  amid  a  jetsam  of  pots  and  pans  and  chairs  and 
plates,  while  Canavan  lighted  his  pipe  with  epic  magnifi 
cence,  as  if  nothing  in  the  slightest  degree  unusual  had 
happened. 

Mrs.  Canavan  stared  at  him  from  rapidly  swelling  eyes 
full  of  dazed  admiration.  It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight  with  her. 

And  when  he  said,  "Git  offen  that  flure  and  wrastle  me 
supper  together  quick,  or  round  the  room  you  go  ag'in!" — 
when  he  said  that  she  felt  that  here  at  last  was  the  lord 
of  her  life. 

He  ate  his  supper  with  a  contemptuous  superiority. 
He  called  the  coffee  "swill"  and  the  potatoes  "mud," 
and  she  waited  upon  him  like  a  captured  Sabine  serving 
the  Roman  who  had  toted  her  home  over  his  shoulder. 

When  Canavan  had  eaten  his  fill  he  kicked  his  chair 
back  against  the  wall,  slapped  his  hat  on  one  side  of  his 
head,  and  went  to  his  saloon.  Instead  of  trickling  through 
the  door  and  drooling  into  a  chair,  he  entered  with  both 
feet,  and  yelled  for  the  barkeeper  to  take  the  orders  and 
have  one  himself. 

Though  he  had  sat  among  the  gang  off  and  on  for  years, 
he  had  been  so  meek  and  taciturn  that  he  had  been  almost 
a  stranger  to  the  coterie.  To-night  he  made  himself  host 
and,  as  the  potations  enlarged  him,  he  led  the  singing. 
In  fact,  before  the  evening  was  over  he  had  somehow 
managed  to  get  himself  invited  to  do  a  solo,  and  in  a  loud 

196 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

and  confident  tone,  not  afraid  to  err  from  the  key,  he  had 
sung  this  relique  of  Dublin  days: 

"Good  evenin'  to  you,  boys.    I  hope  to  see  you  well, 
As  I  consider  meself  to-night,  as  army  tongue  can  tell. 
I'm  not  out  of  employment,  nor  lookin'  for  a  job; 
And  you  know  me  weekly  wages  is  over  eighteen  bob. 
It's  a  twelvemonth  lasht  Septimber  since  I  left  Balbriggan 

town, 

And  I  helped  me  Uncle  Barney  to  cut  the  harvest  down. 
It's  now  I  wear  a  ganzy,  and  around  me  waisht  a  belt, 
I'm  a  gaffer  o'er  the  boys  that  makes  the  hot  ashfelt." 

And  the  chorus  was: 

"You  may  talk  about  your  sojers,  your  sailors  and  the  resht, 
Your  shoemakers  and  tailors  to  plase  the  ladies  besht; 
But  the  only  boys  that  have  a  chance  the  colleens'  hearts  to 

melt 
Are  the  boys  around  the  boiler  makin'  the  hot  ashfelt.'* 

Second  stanza,  by  request: 

"A  polisman  steps  up  to  me,  and  he  says:   'Now,  McGuire, 
Will  ye  kindly  let  me  light  me  dudeen  at  your  boiler  fire?' 
Says  I:    'Me  honest  polisman,  you  know  it's  gittin'  late, 
And  if  you've  anny  gumption  you'll  go  and  mind  your  bate.' 
With  that  I  drew  out  from  'um  and  I  hit  'urn  such  a  welt 
That  I  knocked  'um  in  the  boiler  among  the  hot  ashfelt." 

Chorus.    Third  stanza,  by  wild  acclamation: 

"The  boys  they  gathered  round  him  and  shtuck  him  in  the  tub, 
With  soap  and  warrum  wather  they  all  begun  to  shcrub. 
In  the  Dub(a)lin  museum  he  is  hung  up  by  the  belt 
For  an  example  to  the  boys  that  make  the  hot  ashfelt." 

When  Canavan  had  done  the  asphalt  chanty  the  circle 
roared  with  the  applause  due  to  an  unsuspected  genius 
long  smothered  in  their  midst. 

197 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

It  was:  "Good  bhoy,  Canavan!"  "Canavan's  the 
la-ad!"  "Give  us  another,  Canavan!"  "Shut  up  and 
lave  'um  sing!" 

Then  Canavan  roared  out  the  ballad  of  "Nancy  Hogan's 
Goose."  It  was  even  broader  than  it  was  long,  but  it 
went  splendidly  well  with  the  beer. 

It  was  late,  late  that  evening  before  the  crowd  would  let 
Canavan  off,  and  when  he  swung  down  the  street  he  found 
it  suddenly  too  narrow  for  his  swath.  He  climbed  the 
stairs  like  an  Irish  bull,  for  whenever  he  had  negotiated 
three  steps  he  rolled  down  five;  but  he  got  all  his  dignity 
to  the  top  at  last,  and  he  smote  his  door  ajar  like  a  cos 
tume-play  prince  entering  a  castle. 

During  the  long  evening  Mrs.  Canavan  had  mustered 
some  of  her  old  courage  back,  and  when  her  man  sprawled 
across  more  than  his  share  of  the  bed  she  rebuked  him 
after  her  old  manner.  Whereupon  he  placed  his  foot  in 
the  small  of  her  back  and  catapulted  her  to  the  floor.  The 
thud  shook  the  house  and  ended  her  last  resistance. 

The  next  morning  she  let  him  sleep  to  the  ultimate 
moment,  helped  him  on  with  his  clothes,  and  had  his 
breakfast  waiting  for  him.  As  he  neared  the  place  of  his 
work  and  bethought  him  of  the  boss  who  had  him  com 
pletely  cowed,  his  brief  authority  oozed.  But  Sorahan 
again  failed  to  appear;  again  Canavan  was  established 
with  the  red  flag,  and  the  sip  of  command  became  a 
thirst. 

On  the  following  day  the  boss  gave  Canavan  a  bit  of  lip 
and  Canavan  told  him  where  to  go.  The  boss  came  at 
him  with  big  fist  clenched,  and  Canavan,  seizing  the  spade, 
gave  him  the  flat  of  it  with  such  force  that  the  boss's  eye 
brows  showed  through  the  gaping  crown  of  his  new  derby. 
The  boss  fired  him,  from  a  distance,  but  election  by  this 
time  was  so  imminent  that  Canavan  demanded  a  new  job 

198 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

of  his  ward  boss,  and  got  it.  The  fame  of  his  prowess  with 
the  spade  brought  him,  furthermore,  an  appointment  as  a 
poll-watcher  with  instructions  to  assure  the  safety  of 
certain  floaters,  voting  under  the  names  of  men  who  had 
removed  to  the  cemetery  or  elsewhere.  Canavan  accom 
plished  this  false  suffrage  with  such  enthusiasm  that  the 
district  polled  eighteen  more  votes  for  his  party  than  the 
total  registration  of  both  parties. 

The  ward  boss  cautioned  Canavan  against  an  excess  of 
zeal,  and  there  was  some  scandal  over  the  matter.  But 
prosecution  was  side-tracked  and  Canavan  was  recognized 
as  too  good  a  politician  to  be  wasted  on  a  blasting  crew. 
There  were  political  subways  to  build,  and  Canavan  joined 
the  municipal  underground  gang.  The  young  fellow  had 
acquired  a  lust  for  power  and  a  taste  for  breaking  a  head 
when  he  saw  it.  He  needed,  and  he  began  to  acquire,  the 
arts  of  waiting,  of  withholding  the  fist,  and  using  the 
terror  of  its  clenched  threat,  of  manipulating  people,  and 
kneading  a  constituency  like  dough. 

As  Canavan  came  up  in  the  world  he  came  down  in  his 
tenement.  It  was  one  evening  when  he  had  reached  the 
dignity  of  the  ground-floor  apartment  formerly  occupied 
by  the  Honans,  whose  son  had  lost  his  post  on  the  Newnes 
equipage,  that  Canavan  sat  at  his  ease  in  a  rocking-chair 
and  thought  backward. 

On  the  window-sill  his  shoeless  feet  loomed  large,  and 
through  them  he  could  see  a  meek  and  lowly  being  in  a 
dingy  helmet  and  maculate  white  canvas,  pushing  the 
wheeled  sack  known  as  the  can- wagon. 

Mrs.  Canavan  sat  in  another  rocker,  with  her  somewhat 
smaller  feet  resting  on  the  other  sill,  undergoing  a  painful 
incarceration  in  a  pair  of  high-heeled  slippers  to  which  she 
was  initiating  them  gradually. 

Canavan  imbibed  a  deep  draught  of  smoke  from  a  black 

199 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

foot-rule  of  tobacco,  shifted  it  to  the  larboard,  and  ob 
served  : 

"That's  Sweeney  out  there,  whisk-brooming  the  pave 
ment." 

"Usedn't  you  to  be  in  his  squad?"  said  Mrs.  Canavan. 

"I  used,"  and  the  big  cigar  jibed  to  the  starboard.  "It's 
not  so  long  ago  that  I  was  diggin'  peat  in  the  bogs  of 
Ireland  and  red-eyed  with  the  smoke  of  it.  And  you  was 
a  barefoot  colleen,  peelin'  praties  for  supper." 

"Little  we  thought  we'd  be  atin'  mate  free  times  a  day 
so  soon,"  said  Honoria.  "You'll  be  President  before  long." 

"Not  till  they  change  the  Constitootion,"  he  said  from 
his  superior  political  knowledge.  "But  I'll  come  as  close 
to  it  as  nominatin'  him  one  of  these  fine  days.  It's 
America  that's  the  country  for  the  Irish." 

"Sure  is  it,"  said  Mrs.  Canavan. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  them  Noons  horses,  though," 
said  Mr.  Canavan,  "I'd  still  be  one  of  the  White  Wings, 
servin'  as  public  chambermaid  on  the  Avenyeh." 

And  Mrs.  Canavan  cooed,  '*  Horseshoes  sure  do  be 
lucky  things,  Danny  darlin'." 

II 

All  night  long  the  crooked  streets  of  London's  many 
towns  had  been  astream  with  citizens  pouring  one  way, 
as  if  from  another  plague  or  another  great  fire.  But 
it  was  not  terror  that  drove  them  to  the  fields;  it  was 
sport  that  drew  them.  The  annual  hegira  to  the  Derby 
was  in  progress;  and  those  who  were  too  penniless  to 
book  other  carriage  must  e'en  ride  on  shanks'  mares. 

All  night  long,  then,  the  streets  were  murmurous  with 
the  rumor  of  feet  and  the  muffled  voices  of  the  poor  and 
pedestrian. 

200 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

Daybreak  found  the  slopes  about  the  classic  hippodrome 
already  populous  with  early  squatters,  while  every  con 
vergent  road  was  still  swollen  with  footsore  mobs.  The 
later  hours  of  morning  brought  a  melee  of  motors  of  every 
shape  and  color,  two-storied  coaches,  equipages  of  all 
designs,  donkey-shays  with  bright-buttoned  passengers, 
bicycles,  more  motors,  more  coaches,  carriages,  donkey- 
shays,  and  everything  vehicular  that  could  turn  a  wheel. 

Everybody  in  England  was  there  whom  cruel  necessity 
did  not  chain  to  a  desk  or  a  shop,  and  everybody  who 
could  beg  or  borrow  or  steal  a  top-hat  of  any  bell  or  brim, 
or  acquire  one  by  entail,  wore  it  on  his  head  with  perfect 
complacency  as  to  any  nether  incongruity. 

Even  the  horses  seemed  to  be  clothed  in  large  sections  of 
silk-hat  cloth  of  various  colors,  black,  sorrel,  and  bay.  The 
King  himself  was  there,  accompanied  by  such  princes, 
dukes,  and  others  as  made  His  Majesty's  retinue. 

With  the  exception  of  the  King,  who  was  correctness 
itself,  ex  officio,  there  was  in  all  that  crowd  no  correcter 
thing  than  Canavan. 

What  his  old  cronies  of  the  Street-cleaning  Department 
would  have  thought,  had  they  seen  him,  it  would  be  hard 
to  imagine  and  harder  to  get  into  print.  Some  of  them  had 
advanced,  some  of  them  had  lost  even  that  job,  some  of 
them  were  still  scavenging.  Sweeney,  for  instance,  had 
more  white  in  his  hair  than  in  his  uniform  and  he  was  still 
pushing  the  scraper.  He  would  never  have  known  Can 
avan  for  one  of  his  former  fellows,  for  that  chapter  of  Mr. 
Cana van's  history  was  one  that  he  had  torn  out  of  his 
book  as  early  as  possible. 

Least  of  all  were  the  Cadburys  aware  of  it — Rodman 
Cadbury,  3d,  and  Mrs.  Cadbury,  nee  Newnes.  They  un 
derstood  vaguely  that  Mr.  Canavan  had  risen  from  the 
people,  and  his  occasional  slips  of  tongue  betrayed  him; 

201 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

but  they  knew  that,  whatever  he  might  have  been,  he  was 
now  rich,  potent,  a  personage.  His  enemies  called  him  the 
King  of  the  city  and  reformers  were  forever  attempting 
to  purge  it  of  his  influence.  But  still  Cana van's  influ 
ence  pervaded  and  the  knell  of  his  dynasty  was  not  yet 
sounded. 

Cadbury  had  first  come  to  know  Canavan  when  an  as 
sociate  told  him  that  a  project  in  which  they  were  engaged 
was  being  blocked  by  some  mysterious  influence.  He 
learned  that  one  Canavan  had  an  interest  in  another  com 
pany  than  that  to  which  they  had  decided  to  let  their 
contract. 

"Who's  Canavan?"  said  Cadbury,  who  did  not  read 
the  papers. 

"The  most  powerful  man  in  the  city — that's  all,"  said 
his  associate. 

"What  office  does  he  hold?" 

"All — and  none.  It's  enough  for  you  to  know  that 
you'd  better  not  antagonize  Canavan." 

"And  they  call  this  country  a  republic!"  sneered 
Cadbury.  "That  man  Canavan  ought  to  be  in  the 
penitentiary." 

Cadbury  had  first  come  to  meet  Canavan  in  the  flesh 
under  circumstances  of  still  greater  meaning  to  his 
fortunes. 

Cadbury  had  inherited  as  part  of  his  personal  prop 
erty  the  control  of  a  great  company  whose  monstrous 
wealth,  made  up  of  the  post-mortem  trusts  of  numberless 
individuals,  his  father  had  handled  as  he  pleased.  Cad 
bury  inherited  the  methods  and  the  mental  attitude  of 
his  father  as  well  as  the  majority  of  the  company's  stock. 

But  he  fell  upon  harsher  times.  The  public  began  to 
mind  its  own  business  and  to  poke  its  finger  into  the  books 
of  the  trustees.  Uncle  Sam's  nose  was  offended  at  the 

202 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

habits  of  the  Cadburys,  dead  and  alive,  and  at  the  customs 
of  the  officials  who  ran  the  company  while  this  Cadbury 
went  dilettanting  about  Europe,  making  the  whole  world 
a  pleasure  resort. 

To  his  disgust,  rather  than  his  shame,  young  Cadbury 
found  himself  and  his  lieutenants  treated  with  scant 
courtesy  by  people  and  press  alike.  Previously  to  this, 
young  Cadbury  had  never  seen  his  name  in  the  papers 
except  in  an  "Among  those  present"  list,  or  in  the  score 
of  a  polo-game,  or  on  the  occasion  when  he  married  Bea 
trice  Newnes  and  found  himself  and  his  bride  widely 
head-lined  and  half-toned. 

But  now  he  was  universally  advertised  by  his  loving 
enemies.  He  and  his  sports  and  his  business  methods 
were  omnipresent  in  news  item,  editorial,  and  cartoon. 
It  was  especially  unfair  to  ridicule  Cadbury 's  "business 
methods,"  for  he  had  none.  His  appearances  at  directors* 
meetings  were  a  bore  to  him  and  a  joke  to  the  board.  He 
sanctioned  whatever  was  simplest  to  vote  for  and  what 
ever  promised  him  larger  dividends,  since  they  meant  to 
him  another  champion  polo-pony  or  a  motor-boat  of  higher 
horse-power. 

And  suddenly  this  hyacinthine  youth  found  himself 
and  his  pleasances  under  the  scowl  of  the  mob;  dema 
gogues  were  howling  the  word  Indictment.  They  were 
calling  for  his  punishment,  and  Cadbury 's  own  attor 
ney  could  find  no  word  to  utter  except  his  associate's 
password — Canavan. 

"See  Canavan,"  the  lawyer  said. 

And  Cadbury  saw  Canavan.  He  noted  a  curious  look 
in  the  face  that  greeted  him. 

"Your  face  is  familiar  to  me,  Mr.  Cadbury,"  said 
Canavan,  "but  I  think  we  were  never  introduced." 

Cadbury  made  known  his  errand  in  that  tone  of  con- 

203 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

descending  terror  with  which  a  lord  might  beg  his  valet 
not  to  desert  him  in  a  shipwreck. 

Canavan  felt  the  snob's  embarrassment,  but  his  tri 
umph  was  sufficient  and  he  took  no  umbrage  at  what  he 
felt  to  be  a  hopeless  habit  of  mind. 

"I'll  use  my  infloonce — if  I  have  anny,"  he  said. 
"I'd  rather  like  to  help  you  if  I  can.  I'll  see  what  can  be 
done." 

Cadbury  overflowed  with  gratitude  and  stumblingly 
offered  any  compensation  his  benefactor  might  demand. 
Again  his  manner  was  that  of  a  man  in  a  foreign  country 
asking  an  obliging  servant  what  he  would  consider  an 
appropriate  tip. 

People  of  lowly  origin  feel  manner  by  intuition,  but 
again  Canavan  was  smilingly  superior  to  insult.  He 
refused  any  gratuity. 

"I'm  owing  you  a  favor  for  some  years,"  he  said,  "and 
I'm  glad  to  get  it  off  my  chest." 

But  when  Cadbury  asked  what  the  unimaginable  debt 
could  be,  Canavan  only  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  He 
would  not  tell.  But  he  told  his  wife  afterward: 

"That  Cadbury  chump  was  in  the  Noonses'  carriage 
when  it  went  over  me.  And  I  owe  everything  to  that 
Noons  carriage.  There's  one  thing  I'll  never  get  off  me 
chest — it's  the  scar  their  horseshoes  left  on  me." 

His  brogue  was  fading  away  like  a  mist  from  Killarney 
of  a  fine  morning,  but  when  he  was  with  his  wife  it  settled 
down  over  his  speech  with  its  old-time  thickness. 

Mrs.  Canavan  was  fading  away  too — in  strength,  but 
not  in  size.  The  brawn  of  her  early  life  had  softened  to 
fat,  and  her  husband's  growth  in  power  and  pelf,  though  it 
brought  him  responsibilities  and  anxieties  that  kept  him 
fine  and  taut,  brought  her  only  sloth  and  fatal  luxury. 

"Prosperity  is  not  for  the  likes  o'  me,  Danny  darlin'," 

204 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

she  would  sigh  from  the  depths  of  a  heart  sinking  in  an 
opulent  despair. 

She  grew  fat  of  mind  as  of  body,  and  gross  of  both. 
She  did  not  react  to  the  new  conditions,  and,  while  she 
bedecked  her  huge  frame  with  the  gaudy  silks  and  weighty 
jewels  that  accentuated  her  plebeiance,  she  could  not 
follow  her  husband  up  the  narrow,  steep  ladder  where  his 
success  pushed  him. 

Cadbury  needed  more  than  one  saving  from  public  ire, 
and  he  began  to  find  Canavan  picturesque  as  well  as 
valuable. 

One  night  he  had  him  to  dinner  and  displayed  him  to 
his  guests,  much  as  he  might  have  diverted  them  with  a 
famous  chimpanzee  trained  to  wear  clothes  and  sit  at 
table.  But  the  people  who  came  to  be  amused  remained 
to  be  amazed.  Canavan  was  no  man's  fool,  and  he  had  a 
way  of  gaining  the  upper  hand  of  anybody  he  met. 

Mrs.  Cadbury  was  especially  impressed  with  the  bar 
barian.  She  could  not  stop  talking  about  him. 

"He's  a  new  sensation,"  she  exclaimed;  "you  feel  as  if 
he  were  a  live  wire  dangling  about  you.  He  is  positively 
thrilling." 

And  as  the  weary  rich  would  rather  be  thrilled  than 
anything  else,  Canavan  found  himself  drawn  into  society, 
ingurgitated  as  in  a  quicksand  of  gold. 

And  so,  as  the  years  rolled  on  and  rolled  him  deeper  and 
deeper  in  potency,  and  as  the  appetite  for  ostentation 
grew  by  the  thing  it  fed  on,  behold  Canavan  at  last  so  far 
cleansed  of  his  street-cleaning  odium  that  he  was  a  dis 
tinguished  guest  at  the  Derby,  traveling  en  prince,  hatted, 
spatted,  gloved,  and  frocked  like  the  King,  with  field- 
glasses  slanting  to  his  hip,  and  a  brogue  as  faint  as  the  tint 
of  the  soft  gray  gloves  on  the  hands  that  had  almost 
entirely  forgotten  the  ungraceful  tools  of  their  early  habit. 

205 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

Canavan  was  not  merely  the  guest  of  honor  on  the 
Cadbury  coach,  with  Mrs.  "Bice"  Cadbury  proud  to  be 
at  his  elbow,  and  Canavan  was  not  merely  a  spectator 
at  the  Derby.  Canavan  was  a  participant  as  the  gentle 
man  owner  of  one  of  the  race-horses. 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Canavan,"  Mrs.  Cadbury  was  say 
ing,  "how  ever  did  you  come  to  name  your  horse  White 
Wings?" 

"Isn't  it  a  pretty  name?"  said  Canavan,  cautiously. 

"It's  a  beautiful  name,  but  I  was  wondering,"  she 
mused.  "Oh,  I  know!  It's  from  the  old  song,  'White 
wings,  they  never  grow  weary,'  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  you  can  lave  it  go — leave  it  go  at  that,"  said 
Canavan,  and  added,  hastily:  "Besides,  she  has  two  white 
stockings.  And  you  can  take  it  from  me,  she's  worth 
betting  on." 

All  the  people  in  the  Cadbury  party,  including  the 
Comte  de  Marmier  and  the  Baroness  Zumsteeg,  bet  openly 
on  White  Wings  and  privately  hedged  by  laying  equal 
or  greater  sums  on  the  King's  horse.  For  the  King's 
horse  was  the  favorite  in  the  betting,  and  Canavan's 
animal  was  at  the  foot  of  the  list,  though  Canavan  said, 
"He's  at  the  top  according  to  the  odds." 

Two  Derbies  back,  a  horse  from  his  Majesty's  stable 
had  nosed  in  first  and  knitted  the  empire  a  little  closer 
by  the  good-fellowship  that  abounds  when  a  favorite  wins, 
especially  a  royal  favorite.  This  year  the  King  had  en 
tered  another  runner  whose  trainers  vouchsafed  him  fit 
as  a  fiddle.  Every  loyal  Englishman  and  Englishwoman 
laid  on  him  every  bob  and  quid  he  could  muster,  or  she. 

The  favorite  would  not  dare  to  lose — most  of  all  to 
the  dark  horse  of  an  expatriated  Hibernian  from  New 
Erin. 

But  Canavan  trusted  to  the  pull  of  every  four-leaved 

206 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

shamrock  in  snakeless  Ireland,  and  he  bet  as  much  as 
he  could  get  covered.  Somehow  he  believed  in  the  clean 
sweep  of  White  Wings. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  long,  slow  climb  of  a  man,  not 
of  the  short,  swift  run  of  a  horse,  and  there  is  no  place 
here  for  the  brief,  wild  chronicle  of  that  Derby.  Only, 
after  the  jumbled  chaos  of  the  getaway,  the  shredding 
of  the  mass  of  horses  into  little  scattered  clumps  of  agi 
tation,  the  great  cavalry  battle  was  gradually  reduced  to 
a  duel  of  two  leaders,  with  the  rest  nowhere. 

The  long-staring  eyes  of  the  field-glasses  on  the  Cad- 
bury  coach  made  out  in  the  distance  one  fact — that  the 
hunched  jockeys  on  the  two  horses  in  the  lead  wore  the 
colors  of  the  King  and  the  colors  of  Canavan. 

The  man  who  was  up  on  White  Wings  wore  a  jacket 
of  green  with  a  red,  white,  and  blue  sash.  Canavan  was 
the  calmest  man  on  top  of  the  coach — the  calmest  out 
side,  though  the  seethe  within  him  was  maelstrom.  He 
hardly  realized  that  Mrs.  Cadbury  was  clinging  to  him 
for  dear  life,  to  keep  from  falling. 

When  the  two  horses  came  into  the  stretch,  beating  the 
resounding  earth  backward  under  their  glorious  hoofs, 
thousands  of  throats  were  split  with  the  applause. 

Two  people  alone,  it  seemed,  were  silent.  They  were 
too  deeply  stirred  and  too  deeply  concerned  to  make  a 
noise.  They  were  the  white-bearded  gentleman  who 
owned  the  King's  horse  and  the  white-faced  street-cleaner 
who  owned  Canavan's. 

The  thunder  died  in  a  gulp  of  national  disappointment, 
and  the  frenzy  of  such  Irishmen  and  Americans  and  Irish- 
Americans  as  were  in  the  throng  made  hardly  more  than  a 
little  clatter  in  the  universal  silence  of  the  broken-hearted, 
broken-pursed  English. 

207 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

Cadbury  and  Mrs.  Cadbury  and  the  rest  of  their  party 
were  riotous  as  only  well-bred  people  can  be  when  they 
let  go.  They  beat  Canavan  with  hands,  umbrellas,  para 
sols,  fans.  "Bice"  (which  rhymed  with  "Peachy")  actu 
ally  kissed  Canavan  before  she  knew  what  she  was  doing, 
but,  as  her  husband's  arm  was  round  him  at  the  time, 
and  as  the  Comte  de  Marmier  kissed  him  on  the  other 
cheek  at  the  same  moment,  the  incident  lacked  im 
portance  to  everybody  except  Canavan.  And  all  he 
said  was: 

"The  best  thing  about  White  Wings  is  the  long  nose  of 
her.  An  inch  off  that,  and  I'd  have  quit  loser." 

As  he  was  clambering  to  the  ground  to  run  to  his  horse, 
Mrs.  Cadbury  called  down: 

"The  King  will  send  for  you  to  congratulate  you.  He 
always  does." 

"If  he  does  I'll  not  go,"  said  Canavan. 

"  What !"  screamed  the  whole  coach-top  in  chorus.  Mrs. 
Cadbury  nearly  swooned. 

"Oh,  don't  make  a  scene,  I  implore  you!"  and  almost 
unconsciously  she  added,  "for  my  sake." 

Canavan  gave  her  a  curious  look,  then  turned  and 
plunged  into  the  crowd,  fighting  his  way  through  with  an 
old-time  zest  and  an  old-time  expertness.  He  knew  how 
to  penetrate  even  a  solid  wall  of  mankind  like  that,  and 
he  spared  no  expense  of  other  people's  ribs,  toes,  or 
feelings. 

The  watchers  from  the  coach  followed  his  hat  through 
the  throng,  and  saw  him  reach  the  tossing  head  of  his 
triumphant  horse. 

Canavan  reached  an  arm  round  the  reeking  gloss  of 
the  throat  and  planted  a  kiss  on  the  smooth,  long  muzzle. 
He  pulled  down  the  perfect  profile  and  whispered  certain 
things  into  the  silken  ear. 

208 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

"It  wasn't  for  nothin'  I  fed  you  on  shamrocks,  mavour- 
neen,"  he  murmured.  "Ah,  but  it's  an  angel,  not  a 
harse,  you  are,  and  you  carried  all  Ireland  on  your  back 
the  day." 

Then  he  reached  up  and  wrung  the  hand  of  the  gig 
gling  jockey,  who  was  no  German. 

"I'll  put  something  more  in  your  hand  than  me  fist, 
mind,  Dennis,  me  boy,"  he  said. 

And  at  that  moment  the  summons  was  brought  him 
that  His  Majesty  would  receive  him.  Canavan  wavered, 
but  he  was  in  no  mood  for  rancor  toward  even  a  king, 
and  he  remembered  Mrs.  Cadbury's  look  and  her  phrase. 
So  he  left  his  horse's  head  and  suffered  himself  to  be  led 
into  the  presence. 

In  the  name  of  English  sportsmanship  the  first  of  Eng 
lish  sportsmen  praised  Canavan  and  his  horse  for  their 
glorious  victory. 

"To  win  a  Derby,  Mr.  Canavan,"  said  the  King,  "is 
to  make  history,  and  to  beat  a  horse  like  mine  is  to  make 
great  history." 

"I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Canavan. 

The  King  seemed  not  to  notice  the  informality,  and 
put  out  his  hand  as  man  to  man.  It  is  part  of  an  Irish 
man's  nature  to  let  no  person  be  politer  than  he,  and  the 
graciousness  of  the  King  set  Canavan  a  pace.  There  is 
no  courtesy  more  exquisite  than  that  of  two  hostile  war 
riors  meeting  under  a  truce,  and,  whatever  may  have 
been  Canavan's  mental  reservations,  he  greeted  the  Sas 
senach  with  vizor  raised  and  mailed  hand  undamped. 

As  he  walked  off  he  looked  out  over  the  crowd-encum 
bered  speedway  and  said  to  himself: 

"Canavan,  me  boy,  it  wasn't  for  nothin'  you  took  your 
start  in  the  D.  S.  C.  Sure  and  you're  after  makin'  a 
nate  job  of  that  thrack." 

209 


LONG   EVER    AGO 


in 

With  Canavan,  success  was  absolution.  He  had  learned 
the  world  from  the  seamy  side  out  and  the  under  side  up. 
Conditions  were  to  blame  for  his  theories.  As  he  saw 
it,  the  man  who  did  his  bit  conscientiously  and  took  his 
wage  contentedly  was  usually  allowed  to  go  on  doing  his 
bit  and  taking  his  wage. 

Canavan  had  set  it  down  upon  his  tablets  that  the 
kickers,  the  pushers,  the  grafters,  the  takers  of  mean  ad 
vantages,  moved  up;  sometimes  they  moved  up  to  Al 
bany,  sometimes  they  got  only  so  far  as  Sing  Sing — but 
they  moved. 

The  man  everybody  spoke  well  of  stayed  in  the  well. 
The  man  on  top  had  hard  words  and  brickbats,  editorials 
and  sermons,  shied  at  him,  but  "look  at  the  view  he 
gets,"  said  Canavan.  According  to  Canavan's  experi 
ence,  it  was  virtue,  and  not  truth,  that  was  to  be  found 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cistern.  Truth  was  to  be  found  only 
at  the  top  of  the  haystack. 

For  the  Golden  Rule  he  substituted  what  he  found  more 
practical,  a  brass  rule:  Do  the  other  fellow  and  do  him 
good,  for  he  would  do  you  as  good  as  he  could. 

That  was  Canavan's  philosophy.  If  it  had  led  him 
to  jail  he  would  have  cracked  his  rock  with  no  more  ab- 
jectness  of  shame  than  a  man  feels  who  takes  a  good  tip 
and  loses  his  bet.  Since  his  philosophy  had  led  him  past 
the  shoals  into  the  lagoon,  he  felt  no  more  Pharasaic  pride 
than  a  man  feels  who  takes  a  long  shot  and  wins.  The 
luck  ran  his  way;  that  was  all. 

To  offset  the  crooked  entries  in  his  annals  there  were 
countless  anecdotes  of  decency,  of  bluff  charity,  of  fine 
honor,  of  hard-working  altruism. 

He  did  good  by  stealth,  often  by  lawless  ways,  and  he 

210 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

made  no  scruple  to  secure  what  he  thought  justice  by 
perverting  what  the  statutes  call  justice.  For  this  reason 
there  were  many  washerwomen  who  whispered  the  name 
of  Canavan  in  the  chapels  and  worked  for  him  in  the 
tenements.  There  were  hundreds  of  laborers  who  would 
have  died  for  Canavan,  or,  what  was  more  important, 
would  have  voted  twice  for  any  man  he  favored. 

And  so  he  recruited  an  army  that  was  as  much  his  as 
Caesar's  legions  were  Caesar's,  and  Canavan's  gangs  would 
have  marched  against  Manhattan  if  he  led,  as  Caesar's 
veterans  crossed  the  Rubicon  and  captured  their  home 
town. 

Yet  the  effort  of  Canavan  was  all  upward,  outward. 
He  was  like  some  tuber  planted  in  the  muck  and -push 
ing  to  the  light  and  the  upper  air  with  a  blind,  relentless 
instinct  to  crawl  round,  burrow  under,  gnaw  through  any 
thing,  everything  that  stood  between  itself  and  the  light. 

And  all  the  while  Canavan  was  growing  in  grace  as  well 
as  in  grip,  and  in  subtlety  as  in  strength.  He  wanted 
power,  not  notoriety;  to  keep  the  red  flag  and  wield  it, 
letting  the  others  wear  the  uniforms  and  hold  the  offices. 

"When  he  was  rich  enough  he  began  to  sublet  the  uglier 
tasks,  to  depute  authority  to  vicegerents,  and  to  play  the 
gentleman  of  leisure,  the  globe-trotter.  Yet  always  he 
kept  in  touch  with  things,  and  on  occasion,  when  his  lieu 
tenants  and  sub-bosses  fell  foul  of  one  another,  a  cable 
gram  that  Canavan  was  thinking  of  coming  home  usu 
ally  sufficed  to  dissipate  the  insurrection.  If  the  rumor 
did  not  serve  he  came  in  person  and  quelled  both  sides 
till  he  could  dispense  justice  or  dispense  with  it,  as  he 
saw  fit. 

He  assured  his  decisions  by  appeals  to  partisan  patri 
otism,  by  a  word  of  wit,  by  a  promise  or  a  threat,  or,  if 
need  be,  by  violence.  At  least  one  prominent  kid-glove 

IS  211 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

politician  felt  his  fist  and  measured  his  height  horizontally 
on  a  club-room  rug. 

It  was  during  a  period  of  calm  when  the  halcyons 
brooded  on  the  political  sea  that  Canavan  was  taking 
his  otium  cum  dig.  on  his  yacht,  for  by  now  he  had  a 
yacht  of  his  own.  He  had  bought  it  outright  from  a 
decayed  gentleman.  Among  its  outfit  was  a  library  of 
books  which  every  man  of  culture  knows  or  pretends  to 
know.  Not  one  of  them  was  familiar  to  Canavan. 

On  an  occasion  when  Cana van's  restless  soul  was  des 
perately  becalmed,  though  the  boat  was  making  her  eigh 
teen  knots  through  a  scudding  sea,  Canavan  had  recourse 
to  the  bookshelves,  and  his  illiterate  finger,  roving  among 
classics,  stumbled  upon  Plutarch's  lives. 

"How  many  lives  had  this  gazabo,  I  dunno?"  Canavan 
mused,  and  pronounced  the  biographer's  name  as  if  it 
rhymed  with  "starch." 

A  preliminary  whirring  over  the  leaves  showed  him 
that  the  old  Bos  well  was  writing  not  of  himself,  but  of 
others,  most  of  whom  were  as  total  strangers  to  Canavan 
as  was  "Plootartsh"  himself.  He  recognized  Alexander 
the  Great  as  a  vague  name.  He  had  heard  of  Julius 
Caesar.  Indeed,  he  had  once  suped  in  a  play  of  that 
name  by  Shakespeare.  He  had  seen  Caesar  assassinated 
eight  times  in  one  week,  and  had  yelled,  "The  will,  we 
will  have  the  will,"  under  Antony's  fiery  eloquence. 

"The  makin's  of  a  grand  eld  ward  boss  was  in  that 
felly  Antony,"  he  had  said.  It  was  approbation  from  Sir 
Hubert  Stanley. 

From  Plutarch  he  learned  of  Caesar's  enormous  debts 
and  his  enormous  slaughters — a  million  men  dead  and  a 
million  made  slaves  to  be  condemned  to  mutual  slaughter 
in  the  cockpits  of  the  arena. 

"And  they  holler  if  we  break  a  few  heads  at  election- 

212 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

time!"  said  Canavan.  The  circuses  Caesar  gave  to  tickle 
the  mob  reminded  Canavan  of  the  chowder  argosies  of 
his  own  practice.  It  amused  him  to  learn  that  Cagsar, 
for  all  his  glory,  was  bald-headed,  and  sensitive  about  it. 

He  dipped  into  the  lives  of  those  two  merciless  Rome- 
renders,  Marius  (accent  on  the  penultimate)  and  " Silly." 
They  were  to  him  only  two  rival  sachems,  knfiing  each 
other  and  ripping  up  the  city  to  satisfy  their  own  feud. 

"They  were  but  Tweeds  and  Crokers  and  Sullivans  and 
the  like  then  as  now,"  he  thought.  "A  lot  bloodier,  but 
not  half  so  clever.  There  ought  to  be  some  Plootartsh  to 
write  our  lives  the  same  way." 

He  had  come  to  feel  himself  of  a  bookish  bigness.  The 
newspapers  had  long  ago  exhausted  their  heaviest  block 
type  on  him,  and,  like  Alexander,  he  sighed  for  more 
worlds  to  conquer. 

He  was  up  betimes  this  morning  and  the  sailors  were 
still  holystoning  the  deck.  It  reminded  him  of  his  early 
days,  and  he  took  off  his  white  yachting-cap  with  its 
gold  cord  and  compared  it  with  an  imaginary  helmet 
bearing  its  humble  legend,  "D.  S.  C." 

"What  are  you  staring  at,  my  dear?" 

The  voice  over  his  shoulder  was  his  wife's.  It  shocked 
him  because  he  was  thinking  of  Honoria  as  well  as  of  the 
young  street-cleaner  who  had  come  over  in  the  steerage 
with  her  and  now  was  master  of  his  own  yacht. 

But  Honoria  was  not  mistress  of  this  yacht.  Cana- 
van's  wife  of  now  was  Cadbury's  wife  of  then.  It  was 
Beatrice  Newnes  that  Canavan  was  wedded  to  now.  She 
was  always  seeking  a  new  experience,  and  when  the  in 
sipid,  time-slaying,  time-slain  husband  of  her  own  breed 
and  breeding  had  got  his  neck  cracked  in  a  polo  scrim 
mage,  she  had  hardly  grown  used  to  the  monotony  of 
mourning  before  she  was  casting  her  eyes  Canavanward, 

213 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

She  and  Rodman  Cadbury,  3d,  had  known  each  other 
from  infancy.  They  had  bored  each  other  as  children 
and  they  had  stuck  together  from  lack  of  strength  to 
separate  them  from  any  other  congeniality,  like  two  pool- 
balls  knocked  into  the  same  pocket.  Cadbury  had  been 
good  to  her  in  his  superficial  way,  and  he  had  been  true 
to  her  so  far  as  she  knew.  Yet  their  life  had  hardly  been 
so  much  a  communion  as  a  paying  and  returning  of  duty 
calls.  She  insisted  that  their  wedlock  had  been  only  a 
padlock. 

Canavan  had  struck  into  the  well-ordered  orbit  of  their 
system  like  a  rowdy  comet  previously  unobserved.  One 
never  knows  what  a  new  comet  or  a  Canavan  will  do 
next.  This  fact  upset  Beatrice  Newnes  at  first,  but  it 
excited  her;  and  that  was  in  itself  a  final  recommendation. 

She  had  learned  from  certain  allusions  that  Canavan 
had  once  had  a  wife.  Eventually  she  had  known  him 
well  enough  to  venture  a  natural  question  : 

"You  speak  of  your  wife,"  she  said.  "May  I  ask  if 
you  are  divorced?" 

1 '  Divorced !' '  cried  Canavan.  ' '  Divorced !  My  name's 
Canavan.  The  only  alimony  I've  paid  Honoria  has  been 
for  masses  to  rest  her  soul." 

And  so,  when  Cadbury  had  joined  Honoria  in  that 
region  where  Blue  Books  do  not  prevail,  Cadbury 's  widow 
felt  a  right  to  annex  Honoria's  widower.  By  an  ancient 
method  more  easily  practised  by  women  than  explained 
by  men,  Mrs.  Cadbury  managed  at  the  same  time  to 
lasso  Canavan  and  make  him  hers  while  giving  the  im 
pression  that  she  was  being  pursued  and  overpowered  by 
the  man's  all-conquering  will.  Action  and  reaction  are 
equal,  they  teach  us,  and  you  can  never  tell  from  the 
way  they  brace  against  the  lariat  whether  the  cowboy 
caught  the  heifer  or  the  heifer  coquetted  with  the  cowboy. 

214 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

The  writer  who  should  unfold  the  exact  processes  by 
which  females  accomplish  this  primeval  mystery  would 
come  by  a  very  pretty  bit  of  physiological-biological  psy 
chology  and  would  make  Darwin  squeeze  closer  to  Laplace 
to  make  room  for  him.  It  is  as  old  as  Madame  Dino- 
saurus  and  as  new  as  the  fresh  egg  that  shall  disclose  an 
eventual  pullet.  But  the  males  are  still  wondering — 
when  they  are  enough  aware  even  to  wonder. 

So  Canavan  thought  himself  more  than  ever  Cana- 
vanny  when  he  led  Mrs.  Cadbury,  nee  Newnes,  to  the 
altar,  though,  in  fact,  he  was  not  Canavanning  at  all. 

Before  the  honeymoon  had  waned  a  quarter  Canavan 
had  found  himself  a  little  bit  in  awe  of  his  new  wife — 
as  he  had  been  of  the  plush  patent  rocker  which  had  been 
his  first  purchase  in  the  way  of  luxury  long,  long  ago. 
The  new  Mrs.  Canavan  knew  by  intuition  which  fork  to 
use,  and  what  the  French  names  meant  on  the  bill  of 
fare,  and  whether  champagnes  were  really  worth  while,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  which  no  amount  of  will-power 
and  courage  is  of  the  least  assistance. 

Canavan  had  never  dared  reveal  to  her  just  how  humble 
had  been  his  start  in  life.  And  she  could  never  have 
guessed  what  he  was  in  no  hurry  to  tell.  He  concealed 
the  truth,  not  from  any  shame  of  it,  for  he  was  prouder 
of  the  length  of  his  rise  than  of  anything  else,  but  because 
he  felt  that  he  would  lose  authority  over  her.  The  truth 
would  be  but  a  weapon  in  her  hands,  a  loaded  shillelah 
to  crack  him  over  the  sconce  with  when  he  raised  his 
head  in  pride. 

Marriages  should  perhaps  be  performed  in  laboratories 
rather  than  in  churches  and  mayors'  offices,  for  they  are 
like  putting  together  two  complex  compounds  to  form  a 
third  compound  of  whose  properties  no  man  can  know 
a  jot  in  advance. 

215 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

The  Cadbury-Canavan  wedding  was  the  usual  sur 
prise.  Two  explosives  had  been  mingled  and  the  result 
was  inanity. 

Mrs.  Cadbury  had  married  Canavan  because  she  had 
tired  of  milksop  conventionality  and  thought  that  a 
giant  of  masterful  uncertainty  and  uncouth  power  would 
be  an  interesting  thing  about  the  house.  It  was  for  the 
same  reason,  no  doubt,  that  Venus  married  the  black 
smith. 

Canavan  had  married  Mrs.  Cadbury  because  it  seemed 
to  be  the  final  crowning  garland  of  his  climb.  To  conquer 
the  woman  whose  horses  had  ground  him  to  the  asphalt 
had  seemed  a  bit  of  poetic  justice  too  beautiful  to  let  slip. 
A  definite  design  is  as  important  to  a  career  as  to  any  other 
work  of  art. 

But  the  result  of  the  Canavan  wedding  was  dull  and 
stupid  disappointment  for  both.  The  ex-Mrs.  Cadbury 
had  taken  on  a  husband  who  was  shy  and  constrained 
in  her  presence,  and  less  assertive  than  Cadbury  had  ever 
been.  Canavan  had  attached  himself  to  a  bundle  of  nerves. 
He  was  overawed  by  her  inheritance  of  knowledges  and 
usages  which  he  felt  himself  unable  ever  to  acquire.  In 
her  presence  he  felt  like  an  overgrown  lout  come  late 
to  school  and  stood  beside  a  precocious  little  girl  who  was 
skimming  the  fourth  reader  while  he  was  plodding  the 
primer. 

The  yacht  had  seemed  a  refuge  from  the  public,  which 
had  been  duly  startled  by  the  anomalous  wedding  and 
watched  the  strange  pair  with  frank  curiosity.  But  the 
yacht  only  emphasized  the  incompatibility  of  the  couple. 

And  so,  this  morning  early,  they  were  abroad  upon  the 
deck  of  the  snowy  yacht  before  the  sailors  had  polished 
the  planks.  Bitter  unrest  gadflied  both  of  them. 

Canavan  had  been  driven  to  the  last  resort  of  Plutarch 

216 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

for  nepenthe,  and  had  found  new  discontent.  He  was 
about  deciding  that  he  would  go  back  to  New  York,  and 
build  up  a  name  that  should  make  him  biographable. 

It  was  then  he  heard  the  woman's  voice  over  his 
shoulder.  He  shrank  within  himself  and  hid  Plutarch 
away.  As  he  would  have  said,  "she  caught  him  with  the 
goods  on  him."  He  knew  how  she  would  laugh  at  the 
conjunction  of  Canavan  and  a  classic.  If  she  could  know 
what  he  was  thinking  she  would  have  hysterics,  he  was 
sure.  Here  he  was,  en  route  to  conquer  the  world,  and 
not  yet  unafraid  of  his  wife.  He  was  no  longer  Canavan 
at  all,  at  all.  He  was  again  the  foregone  street-cleaner, 
henpecked  at  home  and  boss-berated  at  his  groveling, 
shoveling  job. 

And  so  when  his  mismated  wife,  the  queen  to  whom  he 
was  only  an  appendix,  an  inferior,  a  prince  consort,  caught 
him  staring  at  his  cap  and  asked,  "What  on  earth  are 
you  staring  at  my  dear?"  some  bitter  devil  led  him  to 
abase  himself  still  further  in  her  sight,  and  say: 

"I  was  comparin'  it  with  the  cap  I  used  to  wear." 

"And  what  kind  of  a  cap  was  that?" 

"It  had  D.  S.  C.  on  it,"  he  growled. 

"If  it's  a  conundrum  I  give  it  up.  What  does  D.  S.  C. 
mean?"  she  said,  mechanically,  gazing  with  idle  interest 
at  an  attendant  seagull  that  was  pacing  the  yacht. 

"It  stands  for  Department  of  Street  Cleaning,"  he  said. 

Her  yawn  ended  with  a  gasp.  "You  don't  mean  that 
you  ever — " 

"Oh  yes,  I  did.  See  those  lads  shining  the  deck? 
Well,  I  used  to  holystone  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  there  that 
you  ran  over  me." 

"  I  ran  over  you?"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  bewildered  horror. 

He  tried  for  a  sickly  joke.  "Yes,  it  was  the  first  time 
you  ran  across  me.  I  had  several  escapes  from  your 

217 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

horses,  and  your  coachman  used  to  see  how  close  he  could 
come  to  me.  Finally  he  scored  a  bull's-eye.  You  and 
Cadbury  were  riding  together,  as  usual.  I  caught  sight  of 
you  before  the  hoofs  began  to  do  a  clog  on  me.  They  took 
me  home  in  the  ambulance.  I  could  show  you  the  scar 
one  of  the  horseshoes  left  on  my  shoulder." 

She  had  swayed  and  dropped  into  a  deck  chair,  and  she 
gazed  at  him  as  at  some  fascinatingly  loathsome  reptile. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  used  to  be  one  of 
those  street-cleaners — one  of  those  unspeakable  scav 
engers?" 

"That's  what  I'm  after  telling  you,"  he  confessed, 
shrinking  from  the  blinding  flash  of  her  bitter  eyes. 

"And  you — you  dared  to  marry  me! — to —  Oh,  this 
is  too  hideous  to  believe." 

1 '  What  matters  it  what  I  was  ? "  he  pleaded.  ' '  You  said 
you  loved  me,  you  said  you  admired  me,  Beatrice."  He 
put  out  a  trembling,  pleading,  clutching  hand. 

She  shuddered  away. 

"Don't  you  dare  touch  me!  Don't  you  dare  lay  your 
horrible  hands  on  me,  you — you  thing!" 

He  looked  from  her  to  his  hand.  His  hand  was  his 
history.  He  saw  it  pushing  the  scraper,  he  saw  it  wielding 
the  coarse  brush,  he  saw  it  lathered  with  soap  and  cleansed, 
he  saw  it  sliding  for  his  hat  in  the  timid,  old  way,  he  saw 
it  torn  and  scarred  with  rough  stones,  he  saw  it  grasping 
the  red  flag — the  red  flag  of  authority!  There  was  sal 
vation  in  the  thought. 

He  remembered  with  a  deep,  swift  breath  of  recovery 
how  that  hand  had  gone  from  the  staff  of  the  flag  to  learn 
new  powers.  He  clenched  it  now  into  a  fist — it  was  still  a 
big  fist.  He  could  not  but  remember  the  way  it  had 
quelled  Honoria's  tyranny.  He  had  often  paled  with 
shame  at  the  thought  of  such  unmanly  use  of  strength, 

218 


CANAVAN,  THE  MAN  WHO  HAD  HIS  WAY 

and  yet,  afterward — afterward  Honoria  had  strangely 
changed  for  the  better — she  had  become  a  wife  to  him 
instead  of  a  household  boss;  she  had  loved  him  and  not 
despised  him. 

He  remembered  how  he  had  thumped  the  Newnes 
horses  with  the  nub  of  the  red  flag.  And  now  was  he 
to  let  the  Newnes  girl  trample  him  down  again?  Not  so 
long  as  his  name  was  Canavan. 

He  rose  and  confronted  the  patrician  beauty  shrinking 
from  him,  not  in  wholesome  fear,  but  in  haughty  contempt. 
He  reached  for  her  roughly.  She  gave  a  little  smothered 
shriek: 

1  'If  you  touch  me  I'll  jump  overboard." 

He  answered:  "If  you  move  I'll  throw  you  overboard. 
You're  going  to  sit  right  there  and  hear  me  out.  You 
have  the  truth  of  it.  I  was  a  street-cleaner  and  I  did 
my  work  well.  But  I  was  afraid  of  everybody  on  earth, 
afraid  of  my  wife,  my  boss,  afraid  of  the  motors,  the 
horses,  the  people  who  walked  by,  the  police,  everybody, 
everything.  One  day  your  horses  ran  me  down.  It  was 
no  thanks  to  you  that  I  wasn't  killed  entirely.  But  I 
lived,  and  I  got  a  new  job  with  a  blasting  gang. 

"One  day  they  gave  me  the  red  flag  to  hold.  Your 
carriage  came  along,  and  your  coachman  wanted  to  drive 
over  me  again.  I  held  him  up.  You  stuck  your  pretty 
face  out  and  talked  to  me  as  you  did  just  now.  I  wasn't 
afraid  of  you  then  any  more  than  I  am  now.  I  made  you 
stand  fast  till  the  blast  was  over.  Then  I  went  on  up  in 
the  world  till  I  got  to  where  I  saved  your  husband  from  the 
penitentiary. 

"The  stripes  would  have  looked  no  better  on  him  than 
my  white  wings  looked  on  me.  When  I  saved  him  I  saved 
you  from  being  the  wife  of  a  convict.  Then  your  husband 
and  you  made  friends  with  me.  You  used  me  and  amused 

219 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

yourselves  with  me.  I  was  good  enough  for  you  to  show 
off  to  your  crowd.  When  Cadbury  died  you  thought  I 
was  good  enough  to  marry.  And  marry  me  you  did. 

"I'm  none  of  your  divorcin'  kind.  Once  married,  mar 
ried  till  death,  is  my  creed.  And  yours,  too,  now.  And 
let  me  tell  you  once  for  all,  Mrs.  Beatrice  Newnes  Cadbury 
Canavan,  that  you  are  my  wife,  and  my  wife  you  stay! 

"Whether  I  was  a  street-cleaner  once,  and  whether  I 
become  a  street-cleaner  again  is  my  business,  not  yours. 
Your  job  is  being  Mrs,  Canavan,  and  you  can't  resign. 

"I  hold  the  red  flag  on  you,  and  the  ground  under  your 
feet  is  full  of  dynamite." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  saw  a  face  full  of  command, 
a  face  that  bespoke  a  soul  of  dynamite. 

Wherever  he  came  from,  whithersoever  he  was  bound, 
he  was  power  personified.  He  was  the  Canavan  she  had 
expected  to  marry.  He  was  Petruchio,  and  she  was  the 
Shrew  proud  of  her  tameness.  To  the  infinite  surprise  of 
herself  and  of  Canavan,  she  found  herself  groping  his  way 
with  a  prayerful  hand,  and  she  heard  herself  pleading, 
"Forgive  me,  Danny;  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

The  little  hand  was  lost  in  his  fist  like  a  white  bird  in  a 
nest.  There  was  much  to  think,  but  nothing  to  speak,  till 
Canavan,  seeing  a  steward  bowing  in  the  companionway, 
spoke  with  his  old  authority: 

"We'll  go  in  to  lunch." 

And  he  ate  with  the  first  fork  he  found  to  hand,  without 
waiting  to  watch  her  choice. 


VIII 
THE  AFTER-HONOR 


THIS  was  before  they  were  married,  of  course.  It 
amused  Mrs.  Cadbury  to  talk  to  Mr.  Daniel  Canavan 
in  what  she  supposed  to  be  an  imitation  of  his  Irish 
dialect.  And  it  amused  him  to  butter  the  brogue  thick 
on  his  own  speech  because  it  amused  her,  but  more  because 
it  was  a  remembrant  luxury  on  his  tongue.  It  filled 
the  roof  of  his  throat  with  youth  to  make  words  as  he 
had  made  them  when  he  was  the  young  Gael  that  left 
the  peat-heaps  of  Erin  for  the  gold-bearing  bushes  of 
Broadway.  Time  had  worn  away  his  Irish,  but  it  was 
easy  to  resume  it  when  it  suited  his  whim. 

Mr.  Canavan  was  widowed  these  five  years  of  the  red 
headed,  gray-eyed  bog-trotter  he  had  brought  with  him 
from  Ireland,  her  that  had  prospered  in  their  poverty  and 
languished  when  politics  began  to  make  a  rich  man  of 
him.  Mrs.  Cadbury  had  lost  her  husband  six  months 
back,  and  her  costume  was  belatedly  following  her  heart 
into  half-mourning.  Widower  and  widow — and  philan 
dering! 

This  day  she  had  lured  Canavan  to  the  Ritz-Carlton 
for  lunch  and  she  was  just  after  asking  him: 

"Where  are  you  after  going  to-morrow,  you  wearer  of 
the  grane?" 

221 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

He  winced  indulgently.  "Your  grammar  is  that  bad 
it  gives  me  the  toothache  in  me  ears.  Anny  Irishman 
that  said  'grane'  for  'green'  would  be  a  Dutchman,  and 
how  can  I  tell  what  I'll  be  after  doing  till  I'm  after 
doing  it?" 

"You're  not  answering  my  question." 

"Well,  if  it  is  that  you  must  know,  to-morrow  is  visitors' 
day  at  Sing  Sing,  so  I'll  be  going  up  to  see  one  of  me 
friends  in  the  pinitintiary." 

"Not  so  loud,  for  Heaven's  sake!  The  waiter  will  hear 
you!" 

"Is  it  a  waiter  you  fear  most?  Rich  and  poor  are 
exactly  alike,  they're  so  different.  The  poor  are  afraid 
the  police  will  hear  them;  and  the  rich,  the  waiters.  I'm 
thinking  that  if  I  had  a  gang  of  butlers  and  feetmen  draw 
ing  their  pay  off  me,  it's  little  I'd  care  what  they  thought 
of  me.  And  of  all  things  to  be  afraid  of — a  waiter! 
And  him  scared  to  death  for  fear  he'll  lave  the  mate  fall 
on  you.  But  perhaps  the  word  pinitintiary  hurts  you 
because  you  can't  forget  how  close  your  late  laminted 
come  to  joining  the  lodge!" 

"That's  pretty  low  of  you,  Mr.  Canavan!" 

"Not  so  low  as  you  think,  maybe.  For  I'm  one  of  thim 
that  believes  there's  manny  a  fine  lad  wearin'  stripes — 
only  they  don't  wear  stripes  now.  Annyhow,  some  of  the 
best  friends  I  have,  and  min  I  admire,  too,  are  doing 
their  bit  up  the  river." 

"Ugh!    How  can  you  say  that!" 

Mrs.  Cadbury  could  never  outgrow  the  feeling  that 
Canavan  was  a  kind  of  gorgeous  dragon,  something  cold 
and  sinister  and  floundering,  yet  fascinating  and  potent, 
something  from  his  own  bogs.  She  had  but  the  vaguest 
idea  what  a  bog  might  be. 

And  she  was  as  curiously  wonderful  to  him,  as  fragilely 

222 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

exquisite,  as  helplessly  royal,  as  the  chained  princesses 
must  have  been  to  the  dragons  that  desired  them. 

Each  was  an  unfailing  novelty  to  the  other.  He  had 
known  no  woman  like  her,  and  he  was  as  unlike  the  men 
of  her  acquaintance  as  different  specimens  of  the  same 
genus  could  well  be. 

Her  husband  had  inherited  a  superhuman  fortune  which 
left  him  a  violent  idler,  a  weakling  in  everything  except 
polo.  Almost  anybody  could ' '  ride  off ' '  Rodman  Cadbury 
from  any  important  effort  outside  the  game,  but  when  he 
sat  like  a  huge  clothes-pin  on  his  cat-like  pony  he  feared 
no  hardship,  no  desperation  of  endeavor,  no  risk.  After 
breaking  most  of  his  bones,  he  had  finally  broken  his 
neck  in  a  practice  match .  He  had  been  genuinely  mourned 
by  his  team-mates;  for  the  lack  of  him  lost  them  the 
tournament  of  that  year  with  the  visiting  Englishmen. 

None  of  the  newspapers  failed  to  include  in  his  obituary 
mention  that  Cadbury  had  narrowly  escaped  criminal 
prosecution  for  consenting  to  certain  financial  manipula 
tions  that  fell  into  sudden  obloquy  a  few  years  before. 
That  was  about  the  only  old-fashioned  thing  Rodman 
Cadbury  had  ever  been  guilty  of.  None  of  the  news 
papers  had  mentioned  that  it  was  Daniel  Canavan  who 
had  saved  Cadbury,  for  that  was  one  of  the  few  things 
none  of  the  newspapers  knew.  Canavan  had  shunted 
off  the  prosecution  as  invisibly  and  by  as  complex  a 
leverage  as  a  man  in  a  switch-tower  sidetracking  a  distant 
freight-train. 

Cadbury  had  had  a  way  of  dropping  people  who  had 
been  useful,  for  gratitude  was  a  painful  emotion  to  him. 
But  his  wife  had  gone  on  cultivating  Canavan,  though 
hardly  so  much  from  gratitude  as  from  curiosity.  Then, 
too,  he  had  that  innate  gentlemanliness  which  distin 
guishes  almost  all  Irishmen,  for  their  talk  of  kings  is  not 

223 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

entirely  fiction.  He  was  afraid  of  no  man.  He  was  no 
snob  and  he  would  not  truckle.  Such  a  man  usually  suc 
ceeds  in  the  highest  society,  if  he  chooses  to  frequent  it. 
For  about  all  that  the  upper  circles  demand  of  anybody 
is  to  be  interesting;  to  have  money  enough  to  go  along 
with  the  procession;  to  be  a  little  different,  but  not  too 
much  so;  to  have  self-respect;  and  not  to  care  a  damn 
what  common  people  think. 

So  Mrs.  Cadbury  had  made  a  sort  of  pet  of  Canavan. 
Where  other  women  of  her  stratum  affected  musicians 
and  artists,  exotic  noblemen,  or  Pekingese,  she  toted  a 
politician  about.  To-day  she  had  ventured  with  him 
into  the  Ritz-Carlton  for  luncheon,  and  he  had  rewarded 
her  with  bland  allusions  to  his  friendships  among  convicts. 
Seeing  her  dismay,  he  was  moved  to  seriousness,  and  he 
stooped  to  an  uncharacteristic  effort  at  justifying  himself: 

"There's  as  much  luck  in  jail  as  in  harse-races,  Mrs. 
Cadbury,"  he  said.  "And  it's  a  matter  of  honor,  too." 

"Honor  among  thieves?"  she  sniffed. 

"Sure  there's  honor  among  thieves,"  he  beamed. 
"There's  honor  ivery where,  of  wan  kind  or  another. 
There's  a  million  kinds  of  honor,  all  told,  but  there's  wan 
kind  of  honor  that  few  people  seem  to  reco'nize.  Every 
body  is  always  tahkin'  about  the  kind  of  honor  that  keeps 
a  man  out  of  tim'tation,  but  nobody  seems  to  re'lize 
that  there's  another  kind  of  honor  that  tries  to  save  the 
pieces — a  kind  of  post-mortim  honor." 

"That  sounds  profound,"  she  said,  lifting  her  brows  with 
a  sarcasm  which  he  smothered  under  a  sort  of  gigantic 
condescension. 

"Let  me  see  if  I  can  explain  it  the  way  you'll  understand 
it.  I  have  it.  It's  like  ahtomobiling.  Everybody  that 
drives  a  cair  lahng  enough  is  sure  to  run  over  somebody 
some  day.  The  before-honor  is  a  matter  of  being  ahful 

224 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

careful  going  round  earners  and  zippin'  through  crowded 
streets  with  kids  bouncin'  off  the  kerbs  like  popcorn  from 
the  top  of  a  stove.  Some  of  these  cheffures  scoot  through 
Fit'  Avenyeh  like  they  was  areoplaning  the  Milky  Way 
and  nobody  in  sight.  Others  go  careful  till  they  hit  the 
country;  then  they  let  fly. 

"Sure  the  finest  moderen  examples  I've  iver  seen  of  a 
perfect  trust  in  God  is  the  way  some  of  these  motor-lads 
shoots  round  a  shairp  turn  in  a  road. 

"But  careful  or  not  careful,  wan  time  or  another,  you're 
sure  to  boomp  somebody  with  the  cowcatcher,  or  some 
absent-minded  person  will  look  at  you  comin'  and  walk 
right  into  you. 

"And  now  it  is  that  the  second  kind  of  honor  comes  in. 
Once  you've  scored  your  first  knockdown,  what  do  you  do? 

"It  used  to  be  the  fashion — till  they  passed  a  lah  against 
it — not  that  lahs  does  much  good — but,  annyhow,  the 
quick  get-away  used  to  be  the  fashionable  thing.  The 
man  behind  the  radiator  would  back  off  till  he  cleared 
the  human  obsthruction  and  then  he'd  jam  on  full  speed 
ahead  and  try  to  kick  up  enough  dust  to  hide  the  tail 
number. 

"It's  haird  to  blame  people  for  runnm'  away  in  such 
cases.  They  niver  mint  to  swat  the  victim.  They  had  no 
special  wish  for  to  have  their  headlights  dinted  or  their 
limonsine  spatthered  with  red.  If  they  stop  to  apologize 
they're  li'ble  to  be  manhandled  be  a  mob;  they're  sure 
to  be  taken  to  the  station-house  and  to  get  some  ahful 
pitchers  in  the  papers. 

"And  there — as  handy  as  may  be — is  the  little  lever 
that  '11  jump  them  out  of  trouble  at  a  speed  of  about  a 
million  miles  a  minyute.  Why  should  they  wait?  They 
don't. 

"But  there's  some — not  manny,  but  some — who  says 

225 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

to  themselves:  'It  was  the  old  lady's  own  fahlt;  she  just 
naturally  jumped  off  the  wahk  into  the  wheel.  But  there 
she  lays.  She's  hurted  bad.  First,  I'll  get  her  to  the 
horsepital,  then  I'll  give  me  real  name  to  the  officer  and 
take  me  medicine  as  it  comes  and  sell  the  car.' 

"They're  the  kind  I  lift  me  hat  to.  Of  course  they 
oughtn't  to  have  hit  the  lady — but — annyhow,  they  stand 
fasht.  They  have  nothing  to  gain,  everything  to  lose. 
But  they  stand  fasht. 

"Blame  them  as  you  will  for  the  accident,  it  seems  to 
me  there's  a  rebate  comin'  to  them  for  standin'  fasht. 
It's  true  of  other  crimes  than  motoring.  The  same  thing 
holds.  Once  the  deed  is  done,  there's  the  divil  to  pay. 
Some  folks  repudiates  even  that  debt.  But  I  honor  the 
man  that  pays  his  bills  to  the  Old  Nick. 

"It  is  some  of  those  last  that  are  in  the  pinitintiaries 
to-day.  Not  all,  mind  you.  I'm  not  throwin'  anny  bo'- 
quets  at  convicks.  There's  a  lot  of  thugs  in  Sing  Sing 
I  wouldn't  vote  for  for  President,  even  if  the  Hall  sup 
ported  them.  I  wouldn't  trust  everybody  in  a  jail — anny 
more  than  I'd  trust  everybody  in  a  church. 

"But  manny's  the  man  Up  There  doin'  time,  who 
might  have  done  worse  than  he  done,  might  have  been 
more  of  a  coward  or  a  brute  blagyard  than  he  was, 
might  have  dragged  other  people  into  the  muck  with 
him. 

"That's  one  of  the  raisons  they've  taken  the  stripes 
off  them  in  Sing  Sing.  It's  a  grand  place,  Sing  Sing. 
Was  you  never  there?" 

Mrs.  Cadbury  gave  him  one  look  of  condensed  concen 
trated  reproof. 

Canavan  smiled  as  at  an  impudent  infant. 

"The  first  time  I  wint  up  I  says  to  the  warden,  'War 
den,'  I  says,  'they  tell  me  you've  got  a  fairly  gamy  lot 

226 


THE    AFTER-HONOR 

of  ex-citizens  here.  Is  it  so?  You  ought  to  know  them. 
How  is  it?' 

"The  warden — a  nice  quite  felly  he  is,  too — he  says 
to  me,  'Mr.  Canavan,'  he  says,  'I've  got  the  wans  that 
got  caught,'  he  says.  "They's  plinty  here  that's  as  good 
as  the  average  outside.  There's  plinty  outside  that's 
worse  than  the  worst  here.  All  over  the  country,  cash 
iers  is  tappin'  the  tills  to  play  the  races  or  buy  their 
sweethearts  something.  Some  of  'em  has  luck — the  horse 
wins  and  they  put  it  back  in  time,  and  nobody  the  wiser. 
The  rest  of  them  come  up  here  and  board  with  me.' 

"That's  the  warden's  own  word  for  it,  and  it's  true. 
Everywhere  in  the  worruld  there's  people  doing  funny 
tricks  in  business  and  not  gettin'  exposed.  There's  bur 
glaries  goin'  on  this  minyute  in  this  town  that  nobody 
will  ever  be  laid  off  for.  There's  millionaires  this  minyute 
doin'  fancy  finance  that  would  get  them  a  transfer  from 
their  clubs  to  the  State  boarding-house  if  the  searchlight 
fell  on  them  at  just  the  right  time. 

"It's  on'y  exthraordinary  good  luck  that  keeps  some 
of  us  out,  and  it's  on'y  exthraordinary  bad  luck  that  puts 
some  of  us  in.  But  now  and  thin,  wan  of  us  goes  in 
for  raisons  of  honor.  It  was  that  way  with  the  young 
felly  I'm  visitin'  to-morrow." 

"He  is  a  young  fellow,  then?"  Mrs.  Cadbury  caught 
him  up  with  an  unconscious  quickening  of  interest  that  did 
not  escape  Canavan.  Again  he  absolved  her  with  a  smile. 

"You  women  are  funny  things.  You  ahlways  must 
have  your  haroes  young  whatever,  mustn't  you?  Age  is 
what  you  hate  and  fear  most.  Yet  it  is  a  fine  thing  for  a 
man  to  grow  old — whin  he  doesn't  overdo  it.  It  would 
never  succeed  in  a  novel,  but  there's  haroes  in  reel  life 
that's  bald-headed — and  I've  even  known  fat  rnin  to  be 
brave. 

16  227 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

"But,  annyhow — this  lad  is  still  young,  and  good- 
looking,  too.  I'll  introduce  him  to  you  when  they  let 
him  out." 

"No,  thanks,"  snapped  Mrs.  Cadbury. 

"Oh,  you  should  be  proud  to  know  him!"  said  Cana- 
van.  "He's  the  most  honorable  thief  I  iver  sah.  If  it 
wasn't  for  his  high  sinse  of  honor  he'd  be  a  free  man 
to-day." 

"His  honor  got  him  into  the  pinitin — the  penitentiary?" 
she  gasped. 

1 '  Sure !    They  sintinced  him  for  it. " 

"How?     Why?" 

"Let's  pay  the  waiter  and  move  ahn.  He's  lookin'  as 
if  he  wanted  to  rint  our  table  to  somebody  else.  I  ahl- 
ways  hate  to  keep  a  waiter  waitin'.  Their  poor  feet  get 
so  sore.  Did  you  ever  notice  a  waiter's  feet?  He  may 
look  like  ahl  the  dooks  of  England  in  the  face  and  he 
may  wear  his  dress  soot  like  an  illusthration,  but  if  you 
wish  for  to  onmask  him,  look  at  his  feet.  A  waiter's 
idea  of  heaven  is  to  set  in  a  kitchen  with  his  shoes  off  and 
his  feet  on  a  chair." 

ii 

Mrs.  Cadbury  was  averagely  human,  but  to  sit  in  the 
Ritz-Carlton  and  hear  a  disquisition  on  waiters'  feet  was 
a  mite  too  trying.  She  was  glad  to  get  out  into  the  open 
air,  and  she  was  nerving  herself  to  give  Canavan  a  little 
lesson  in  the  A-B-C  of  manners,  when  she  found  that  he 
had  forgotten  her  to  shake  hands  with  the  big  footman. 

She  turned  with  a  gasp  of  horror  to  find  the  footman 
looking  down  into  Canavan 's  outstretched  palm,  and 
blushing  as  he  brought  his  saluting  hand  from  the  vizor 
of  his  cap.  The  man  was  afraid  to  look  at  Mrs.  Cadbury. 
He  could  fairly  sniff  the  brimstone  she  was  thinking.  But 

228 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

Canavan  was  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder  and  giving  him 
blarney. 

"If  it  isn't  McNulty!  And  lookin'  like  the  admiral  of 
the  Irish  navy.  And  how's  the  old  woman  who  bore  ye 
to  the  glory  of  the  sod  ?  Tell  her  there's  a  box  of  the  turf 
comin'  to  me  anny  day  now,  and  I'll  sind  her  the  filiin'  of 
a  flower-pot." 

Then  Canavan  waved  Mrs.  Cadbury  in  and  clambered 
in  after  her.  In  place  of  being  abject  with  the  apology 
she  was  determined  to  exact,  he  was  florid  with  pride. 

"  That  lad  McNulty  is  the  fine  lad  for  you.  Talk  about 
your  haroes!  He's  the  haroest  of  thim  all.  Besides  be 
ing  Irish,  which  makes  him  a  fighter,  McNulty  is  a  born 
soldier,  built  for  air  t  is  tic  bloodshed.  Wasn't  he  a  ser 
geant  in  the  airmy  in  the  Philippines  before  he  was  twinty 
— and  some  day  a  lootinant  as  sure  as  I'm  not  English. 

"But  what  should  come  to  him,  just  as  he's  re-enlishtin', 
but  a  letter  from  his  old  mudther  sayin'  how  she  was 
lonelying  for  'urn,  now  that  his  father  was  kilt  in  the 
railroad  yairds,  and  his  yoonger  brudther,  a  fireman, 
boornt  blind  savin'  about  siventy-five  hystherical  Polish 
Jewesses  from  a  fire-trap  in  a  shirt-facthry?  And  what 
does  he  do  but  refuse  to  re-enlisht  and  come  home  to  be 
near  the  two  of  thim?  And  ahl  the  job  he  can  get  at  all 
is  openin'  carriage  doors  for  dudes  and  dudettes,  and 
salutin'  overfed  plutocrats — him  that  was  not  long  since 
salutin'  his  superior  officer  and  sayin',  '  Captain,  if  you'll 
lind  me  the  loan  of  four  min  I'll  shwim  this  river  and 
enfilade  the  pants  off  thim  hay  thin  that  hasn't  anny  on!' — 
excuse  the  language  but  it  was  his,  and  not  mint  for  ladies 
— and  didn't  he  do  it,  too?  Five  of  thim  cla'ned  out  a 
trinch  that  held  up  a  rigimint  for  two  days." 

Mrs.  Cadbury  was  moved  to  exclaim,  "What  a  hero!" 

"Hero's  the  word,  only  he's  more  of  a  hero  now  than 

229 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

thin,  for  it  comes  natural  to  the  Irish  to  fight,  but  it  takes 
the  blood  sweat  of  a  martyr  for  wan  to  be  a  footman. 
But  McNulty  does  it,  and  takes  the  scorn  of  people  who 
ought  to  be  shinin'  his  shoes  for  'urn.  And  ahl  for  the 
sake  of  lettin'  his  old  mudther  smoke  her  pipe  with  him 
evenings. 

"That's  the  kind  of  haro-work  that  gets  a  man  no 
headlines  in  the  papers,  and  no  chapthers  in  the  histhry 
books,  but  it's  fine  work,  fine  work  it  is — whedther  it 
lades  a  man  to  bein'  a  door-opener  or  to  bein'  a  convick." 

Mrs.  Cadbury  felt  a  stir  in  the  dust  of  a  little-used  room 
in  her  heart.  Canavan's  earnestness  and  volubility 
thrilled  her  beyond  idle  curiosity,  and  she  was  like  a 
little  girl  pleading  for  a  goblin  story  when  she  said: 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  about  your  friend  in  the 
penitentiary."  The  word  came  more  simply  now. 
"Was  he  a  hero  like  Mr.  McNulty?  You  said  it  was  his 
honor  that  got  him  there." 

"Oh  yes.  McNulty  knocked  him  out  of  my  head.  He 
was  a —  But  here  we  are  at  your  home." 

"Let's  take  one  turn  round  the  Park  while  you  tell  me — 
if  you  don't  mind." 

"'If  you  don't  mind/  said  the  angel  to  the  poor  sinner 
as  she  led  him  off  to  heaven  in  a  chariot!" 

Mrs.  Cadbury  flushed  with  pleasure  at  the  Irish  of  this, 
and  gave  the  driver  instructions;  then  leaned  back  and 
nodded  a  "go  on"  to  Canavan.  He  took  from  a  waist 
coat  pocket  a  cigar  about  the  size  and  shade  of  a  chocolate 
e*clair,  and  without  troubling  to  ask  permission  pinched 
off  one  end  and  lighted  the  other. 

Somehow  she  liked  his  assumption  of  authority,  and  she 
admired  his  careless  ease  as  he  snapped  the  match  with  a 
finger-nail  and  shielded  it  from  the  gusty  wind  in  the 
hollow  of  one  hand. 

230 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

"That's  wonderful!"  she  cried.  "My  poor  husband 
would  have  had  to  stop  the  car  and  use  up  a  box  of 
matches  before  he  could  get  a  light  in  such  a  breeze — and 
usually  I  had  to  open  an  umbrella.  Where  do  you 
Irishmen  learn  the  knack?" 

"I  learned  in  a  ditch,"  he  said,  and  she  felt  jolted  again; 
but  he  mused  blandly  on.  "Three  or  four  matches  in  a 
hatband  had  to  keep  the  clay  stub  goin'  all  day.  It's 
funny  how  much  a  man  can  do  when  he's  got  to.  That's 
the  strongest  wakeness  of  the  rich;  there's  so  manny 
things  they  haven't  got  to  do.  But  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you 
about  O'Meara — Dermot  O'Meara.  He's  no  such  man  as 
McNulty,  mind  you.  O'Meara  has  as  little  fight  in  him  as  a 
man  could  have  and  be  pure  Irish.  And  he  was  sure  that. 

"His  father's  from  my  county,  but  his  mother  is  from 
Kilbeggan  in  West  Meath.  His  father  was  ahlways  as 
honest  as  the  day  is  lahng — and  the  day  is  plinty  lahng 
to  a  day  laborer.  Maybe  he  was  honest  because  he  niver 
sah  annything  to  swipe;  all  the  money  that  iver  come 
nare  him  was  in  the  envelope  they  shlipped  him  through 
the  windy  of  the  pay-shanty. 

"But  the  boy  Dermot,  he  always  had  a  liking  for  the 
cash.  A  newsboy  at  six — saved  his  money  too — soon 
had  other  boys  workin'  for  him — ran  a  boot-blackin' 
business  bechune  extras.  By  the  time  he  was  twelluv 
he  was  a  depositor  in  a  savings-bank.  Later  he  was 
goin'  to  night  school.  He  had  his  soul  set  on  the  bankin' 
business,  and  be  the  time  he  was  twinty-wan  he  was 
assistant  paying-teller  in  a  Hairlem  branch.  He  'd  paid 
a  bondin'  company  to  insure  his  honesty,  and  he  was 
shovin'  money  out  through  the  gratin'  like  it  was  lettuce 
for  a  rabbit. 

"His  father  took  a  day  off  just  to  stand  outside  and 
watch  him  at  it.  The  old  man  called  a  policeman  over 

231 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

to  show  him,  and  said:  'Whist,  Coogan,  that's  me  own 
bye  there.  You'd  think  it  was  clods  of  mud  he  was 
jugglin',  but  it's  boondles  of  boodle.  He  has  the  back 
ache  nights,  from  shovelin'  the  gold  coins  out  the  way. 
He  learned  shovelin'  from  me.  As  soon  as  he's  prac 
tised  the  thrade  of  money  a  little  betther,  he's  goin'  to 
build  a  bank  of  his  own.  I'm  to  have  the  cellar  to  dig. 
He  wants  a  good  cellar/ 

"And  it  looked  as  if  the  lad  would  get  his  wish.  The 
president  of  the  bank  told  me  himself  the  boy  had  a 
big  future.  He  promised  me  he'd  give  him  his  chance. 
But,  oh,  Joseph  and  Mary,  what  a  gulluf  there  is  bechune 
the  future  a  man's  goin'  to  have  and  the  future  that 
becomes  his  past! 

"Here's  me,  that  niver  did  annything  but  see  how  far 
I  could  twisht  the  lah  without  breakin'  it,  ahlways  pushin' 
meself  forward  and  wahking  around  what  I  couldn't  wahk 
over,  and  here  I  am  lollin'  in  a  motor  with  the  most 
beautiful  lady  in  the  worruld  at  me  side — and  she  payin' 
for  the  gasolene. 

* '  And  there's  Dermot  O'Meara,  who  was  ahlways  thinkin' 
of  somebody  else,  always  afraid  he  wouldn't  do  the  tight 
est  of  two  right  things,  always  frettin'  over  the  honorable 
coorse — and  there  he  is  sleepin'  in  a  steel  cell  at  night 
and  wearin'  the  livery  of  shame  be  day,  whilst  his  wife 
and  childer  blush  to  be  known  be  his  name — and  at  that, 
it  was  for  their  sakes  he  come  to  his  misery. 

"The  Lord  love  ye  if  it  wasn't  for  fear  of  bein'  blash- 
phemious,  I'd  say  that  this  earth  is  governed  worse  than 
New  York  itself!" 

in 

Mrs.  Cadbury  was  amazed  to  find  the  bluff  and  burly 
Canavan  in  a  state  of  such  cynic  philosophy.  Somehow, 

232 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

after  the  curious  fashion  of  woman's  interest  in  man,  it 
endeared  him  to  her  to  find  him  capable  of  helplessness 
and  despair.  The  commonplace  life  he  described  was  so 
strange  to  her  that  she  feared  to  interrupt  his  unusual 
flow  of  talk.  She  merely  urged  him  on  with  another 
query: 

"His  wife  and  children  sent  him  to  the  penitentiary, 
you  say?" 

"Them  and  his  father  and  mudther — but  it  was  the 
wife  that  stairted  it.  I'm  after  telling  you  how  young 
he  was  to  be  where  he  was.  Well,  he  was  a  good  lad, 
and  she  was  a  good  girl,  and  nayther  of  thim  thinkin' 
of  marryin'  for  years  to  come.  But  they  wint  one  holi 
day  on  a  chowdther-party  gave  be  a  ward  politician,  and 
through  losing  their  way  and  wan  thing  and  anudther, 
they  miss  the  boat  and  can't  get  home  tilt  next  day. 

"There  was  no  evil  done  excipt  by  the  lahng  tongues 
of  the  neighbors,  but  Dermot  he  was  that  worried  he 
could  think  of  only  wan  answer  to  the  shcandal,  so  he 
marries  the  girl.  She's  a  nice  girl  and  manes  well,  but 
she  has  the  fatal  habit  of  presintin'  him  with  a  bye  or  a 
girl  as  fasht  as — the  lahs  of  nature — excuse  me,  but — 
well,  annyhow,  befoor  the  time  for  Dermot  to  be  thinkin' 
of  taking  a  wife  at  all,  he's  the  father  of  a  family  of  three, 
and  he's  pulling  down  the  magnificent  salary  of  eighteen 
a  week. 

"There's  a  flat  to  furnish  on  the  instalamint  plan,  and 
docthors  and  druggists  and  groceries  and  the  like,  till  he's 
drove  narely  wild  for  to  stretch  the  money  out.  And  the 
worst  about  greenbacks  is  that  they're  not  printed  on 
rubber.  You  can  break  thim,  but  you  cannot  stretch 
them. 

"And  all  the  while  that  Dermot  O'Meara  is  counting 
the  pinnies  at  home,  at  the  bank  he  spinds  his  days 

233 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

shufflin'  hundred-dollar  bills  like  they  was  pinochle  cairds. 
By  and  by  throuble  begins  to  gather  round  him  like  the 
Old  Horny  was  testin'  him  out. 

"His  wife  cooks  with  wan  hand  and  dandles  a  baby 
with  the  other,  and  wan  day  she  blisthers  her  cookin' 
airm  at  the  gas-stove  that  bad  that  he  has  to  have  a 
woman  in  to  get  his  dinner  and  do  the  wash — not  to 
mintion  another  baby  comin'.  Typhoid  fever  lays  up 
wan  of  the  flock  for  three  months,  and  when  they're 
shut  of  that  the  ipidimic  of  infantile  parolysis  lays  holt 
of  anudther  wan  and  there's  a  horrible  battle  to  save  it 
from  bein'  a  cripple  for  life. 

"Dermot  slips  behind  in  his  rint,  his  furniture  instala- 
mint  is  overdue  two  months,  and  his  premium  on  his  life 
insurance  has  two  days'  grace  only,  and  he's  borried  to 
the  hilt  on  his  policy.  He  feels  like  a  lonely  Roosian 
surrounded  be  a  pack  of  hungry  wolluvs.  And  ivery 
day  he's  payin'  out  thousands  of  dollars  to  annybody 
who  pushes  a  check  at  him.  But  the  money  begins  to 
slide  through  his  hands  kind  of  reluctant.  That  old  felly 
Tantalus  had  nothin'  on  O'Meara." 

Mrs.  Cadbury  was  harrowed  by  the  picture.  "It's  a 
crime,"  she  broke  in,  "not  to  pay  those  poor  bank  clerks 
more  money.  No  wonder  they  go  wrong  so  often." 

Canavan  was  immune  to  illusions.  He  sighed.  "If 
they  had  a  million  dollars  a  week,  would  it  make  thim 
honest?" 

"They  ought  at  least  to  have  enough  to  live  on,"  Mrs. 
Cadbury  insisted,  stoutly. 

"How  much  is  that?  How  much  is  enough?"  said 
Canavan.  "Whin  I  was  takin'  ahl  of  a  dollar  and  a 
half  a  day  for  tin  hours'  grubbin'  in  a  nice  cool  sewer, 
we  had  just  barely  enough,  me  and  Honoria  and  the  baby 
we  had  thin — God  rest  the  sweet  souls  of  thim.  And  we 

234 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

owed  nobody — a  good  raison,  too,  for  nobody  would  trust 
us  for  a  pint  of  beer.  A  few  years  later  I  was  hauling 
in  me  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year — no  matter 
how — and  at  that  I  wasn't  sleepin'  nights  for  wondherin' 
how  I'd  pay  off  the  fifty  thousand  dollars  I  owed." 

He  shook  his  head  dismally.  "No,  Mrs.  Cadbury,  if 
it's  going  to  make  human  bein's  honest  you  are,  I'm 
thinkin'  you'll  have  to  poultice  something  besides  the 
pocket-book. 

"But,  annyhow,  it's  ivery  man  for  his  own  problim, 
and  poor  O'Meara's  problim  had  his  head  shwimmin'. 
He  borried  some  money  off  some  loan  sharks  to  tide  him 
over  and  they  tided  him  under.  The  time  came  whin 
he  wanted  fifty  dollars,  and  wanted  it  bad,  and  eighteen 
dollars  was  comin'  in — and  the  loan  sharks  was  howling 
for  that.  Where  was  he  goin'  to  get  it?" 

"I  wish  he  had  come  to  me,"  sighed  Mrs.  Cadbury. 
Canavan  laughed  at  the  fantastic  regret,  but  he  could 
not  help  reaching  out  to  squeeze  her  hand. 

"There's  plinty  more  lads  in  his  shoes  this  day 
if  you're  lookin'  for  thim,  and  could  find  thim,  and 
they  you.  Or  if  you  could  invint  a  way  to  bring  together 
those  that  want  help  and  those  that  want  to  help,  you'd 
go  a  lahng  way  toward  savin'  the  worruld.  But,  anny 
how,  no  angel  like  you  strolled  Dermot's  way;  or,  if  she 
did  she  came  up  to  his  windy,  drew  out  a  satchel  full  of 
cash  to  pay  a  dressmaker  or  a  milliner,  and  passed  on. 
She  prob'ly  never  saw  the  sad  eyes  behind  the  bar  like 
a  hungry  fox  in  a  cage.  And  Dermot  wint  on  pushin' 
out  the  money  that  would  have  mint  salvation  to  him 
and  he  niver  dr'amed  of  touchin'  it  for  himself.  The 
only  way  he  could  think  of  to  invest  eighteen  dollars  and 
make  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  was  on  the  ponies. 

"He  had  niver  seen  a  harse-race  except  in  the  movin'- 

235 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

pitcher  theaters,  but  nare  where  he  lived  was  a  thick- 
dured  house  with  a  sad-looking  man  always  standin'  nare 
the  steps.  Somebody  told  Dermot  he  was  the  lookout 
for  a  pool-room. 

"Young  O'Meara  had  walked  by  ivery  day  for  years. 
Wan  day  he  passed  it  and  wint  back,  and  passed  it  again. 
So  he  did  until  the  lookout  begun  to  grow  unaisy,  think 
ing  he  was  a  detectuff.  The  last  time  Dermot  passed,  he 
didn't.  He  wint  in. 

"Whether  it  was  because  of  what  they  call  beginner's 
luck,  or  because  they  sah  he  was  a  good  come-on  to  en 
courage,  they  let  him  win.  He  wint  home  with  the  one 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars  and  told  his  wife  a  grand  little 
lie  about  how  he  got  it.  That  night  in  his  prayers  he 
asked  God's  blessin'  on  that  pool-room,  and  he  breathed 
deep  for  days. 

"It  wasn't  manny  weeks,  though,  till  the  doctor  took 
him  outside  in  the  hall  and  told  him  to  get  his  wife  and 
babies  to  the  mountains  or  he'd  be  sorry.  It  was  the 
mountains  or  Woodlawn.  Dermot  wint  back  to  the 
pool-room — put  up  his  eighteen  dollars  and  lost  it. 

"  But  he  narely  won,  and  a  slinkin'  tout  gave  him  a 
tip  that  couldn't  fail,  on  a  race  to  be  run  in  NT  Orlins 
next  day:  a  dark  harse  named  the  Mudhen  because  he 
could  shwim  home  when  it  rained. 

"Dermot  wint  home  with  legs  and  head  wabblin'.  He 
was  dead  droonk  on  misery.  He  had  to  rest  three  times 
on  the  stairs  to  his  flat.  He  was  that  sick  and  afraid 
he  wanted  to  run  home  to  his  mudther  and  cry  in  her 
lap.  Outside  of  his  own  dure  he  was  a  wake,  sick,  dish- 
thressful  lad;  the  minyute  he  stepped  through  the  dure 
he  was  the  head  of  a  family.  The  kids  howled:  'Papa's 
home !  Papa's  home !'  like  they  was  sayin' :  '  Clang,  clang ! 
Here  comes  the  firemin.  We're  saved!  Ring  down  the 

236 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

curtain.'  His  wife  turned  her  big  eyes  his  way  and 
flopped  on  his  neck,  and  he  re'lized  that  he  didn't  have 
time  for  to  be  sick  or  to  give  up.  He  drew  a  stiff  upper 
lip.  Us  Irish  has  a  large  upper  lip  for  the  purpose. 
Sure,  it's  lots  of  exercise  we've  had  at  endurin'  since 
Brian  Boroihme  passed  out  and  the  English  passed  in. 

"To  hear  Dermot  O'Meara  talk  to  his  flock  that  night, 
you'd  'a'  thought  he  had  just  been  adopted  by  John  D. 
and  Andrew  K.  and  presinted  with  the  Soob-Threasury. 

"He  laid  awake  that  night  and  figured  it  all  out.  He 
worked  over  his  duty  like  a  bookkeeper  who  can't  strike 
his  trile-balance.  He  told  me  all  about  it  whin  it  was  too 
late  for  me  to  do  annything — for  he  was  tried  by  a  joodge 
I  had  no  control  of  whativer.  That's  wan  throuble  with 
these  reform  joodges  that  shlips  in  sometimes.  They 
won't  listen  to  advice. 

"And  there  was  Dermot  the  trusted  empl'yee  of  a 
bank.  It  would  be  dishonorable  to  look  twice  at  anny 
of  the  bank's  money.  But  there  he  was,  the  trusted 
father  of  a  family.  It  would  be  dishonorable  to  lave  the 
childer  starve  or  grow  up  wakelings,  and  his  wife  to  die 
for  lack  of  a  little  mountain  air. 

"'What  kind  of  a  man/  he  says  to  himself,  'would  he 
be  to  desert  the  helpless  wans  the  Lord  had  sint  him  and 
to  murdher  thim  just  from  lacking  courage  enough  to  pick 
up  a  little  money  where  it  was  layin'  round  by  the  barl?' 

"He  told  me  he  remimbered  something  from  the  Good 
Book,  'Thou  shalt  not  muzzle  the  ox  that  threads  out 
the  grain!'  or  somethin'  like  that.  There  he  was  in  the 
bank  tramplin'  on  money  like  it  was  corn-shucks,  and 
yet  he  felt  sure  that  if  he  picked  up  a  few  bills  and  asked 
the  president  for  them  he'd  be  fired.  Maybe  he 
wouldn't  have  been,  but,  annyhow,  he  was  afraid  to 
risk  it. 

237 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"So  there  was  a  grand  battle  of  honor  against  honor, 
and  may  the  best  honor  win.  And  it  did,  accordin'  to 
his  lights.  He  said  to  himself,  'I'd  rather  be  a  t-thief 
and  branded  than  murdher  me  own  holy  kin.  I'd  rather 
bear  the  reproach  of  all  mankind  than  look  into  the  eyes 
of  me  own  babies  and  refuse  thim  what  I  have  but  to 
put  out  me  hand  to  get  for  thim.'  He  figured  that  honor 
begins  where  charity  does — at  home. 

"And  with  that  same  he  fell  asleep  like  a  child. 

IV 

"The  next  afternoon,  at  closin*  time,  whin  Dermot  is 
carryin'  the  bank's  money  from  his  cage  be  the  double 
arrum-load  like  it  was  kindlin'-wood,  and  pilin'  it  up  in 
cords  inside  the  safe,  he  just  flicked  off  a  couple  of  fifties 
and  vest-pocketed  them  unbeknownst  to  anny  one. 

"He  makes  thracks  for  the  pool-room  and  gets  wan 
of  his  fifties  down  just  in  time  for  the  evint  at  N'  Qrlins. 
And  it's  rainin'  in  N'  Orlins,  and  what  does  he  do  but 
make  a  tin-to-wan  killin'  on  the  Mudhen.  The  tout  was 
so  surprised  he  had  barely  strength  to  claim  half  for  his 
commission  and  hike  for  a  box  of  headache  powdthers. 
And  Dermot  flew  for  home  and  told  his  wife  he  had  found 
a  liberal  friend  to  make  a  loan,  and  they  spint  half  the 
night  packin'  the  thrunks. 

"The  next  marnin'  airly  he  took  her  and  the  babies 
to  the  train  and  kissed  thim  ahl  good-by  with  trimblin' 
lips.  And  now  he  was  left  alone  in  New  York  and  ahl 
he  had  for  coompany  was  a  bad  case  of  ulcerated  con 
science.  He  was  havin'  about  the  laste  fun  out  of  crime 
that  iver  man  had,  for  he  had  no  wickedness  in  'um. 

"He  had  none  of  the  makin's  of  a  politician  or  a  crook. 
He  spint  nothin'  on  clothes  or  liquor  or  ladies  or  jools. 

238 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

He  didn't  even  go  to  see  the  harse-races  he  bet  on.  He 
celebrated  his  luck,  whin  he  had  it,  be  payin'  instala- 
mints  on  the  furniture  and  on  a  doctor's  bill  and  his 
accident  policy.  He  hated  debt  that  bad,  he  paid  off 
all  he  could.  He  overpaid,  laving  himself  no  margin  for 
future  throuble. 

"His  letters  from  his  wife  was  small  coomfort.  He/ 
found  that  the  expinses  of  the  mountain  hotel  was  more 
than  he  expected  they  would  be,  and  he  expected  they 
would  be.  The  sick  did  not  get  well  by  anny  miracles. 
O'Meara  could  see  only  wan  way  to  pay  those  bills  and 
pay  back  what  he  had  borried  unbeknownst  from  the 
bank — and  that  was  to  borry  some  more,  make  anudther 
invistmint  in  the  pool-room,  and  make  a  killin'  big 
enough  to  pay  off  iverything. 

"But  it  was  himself  he  was  killin'.  He  couldn't  seem 
to  win,  so  he  borried  more.  He  got  to  takin'  the  bank's 
money  so  fast  he  had  to  figure  out  a  way  to  double-cross 
the  double  intry.  Maniacs  are  clever  to  a  point,  and 
Dermot  was  goin*  crazy.  He  devised  a  shcheme  that 
worked  temporary.  But  he  was  gettin'  into  deeper  and 
deeper  wather. 

"That's  wan  of  the  raisons,  I'm  thinkin',  why  the  moral 
lahs  is  made  so  sthrick.  The  honesty  of  a  man  is  like 
the  purity  of  a  woman ;  and  the  moral  lah  is  like  the  rope 
that  holds  a  skiff  to  the  dock.  Once  you  onloosen  that, 
there's  no  tellin'  where  it's  goin'  to  drift. 


"All  this  time  Dermot  O'Gara  has  been  so  worried  over 
his  wife  and  kids,  he's  well-nigh  forgot  he  has  parents  of 
his  own.  But  he's  so  ashamed  of  so  manny  things,  this 
is  just  wan  more  drop  in  the  bucket.  And  thin  one  day, 

239 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

a  Friday  it  was,  his  father  and  mudther  sind  for  him  to 
dinner. 

"The  whole  family,  includin'  four  other  childer,  day 
laborers  and  servant-gerls,  are  envyin'  Dermot  for  his 
aisy  life.  They  gathers  round  the  table,  and  whin  the 
dinner's  over — they  had  a  dispinsation  from  the  priest 
so  that  they  could  have  mate  that  dinner  and  the  priest 
himself  was  there,  and  not  overfond  of  fish  himself — whin 
they've  passed  from  ice-crame  to  beer,  the  old  man  tries 
to  make  a  speech  and  the  old  woman  has  to  finish  it  for 
'urn.  She  explains  that  this  is  a  grand  surprise  party,  for 
this  very  day  she  and  the  old  man  have  paid  off  the  last 
cint  of  the  mortgage  and  they  own  their  own  home  clear 
and  free. 

"It's  hairdly  more  than  a  shack  in  a  back  yaird,  accord 
ing  to  your  ideas,  Mrs.  Cadbury,  but  it's  theirs  and  it's  a 
palace  to  them,  and  they  have  no  more  rint  to  pay,  nor 
interest.  They  can  live  there  in  pace  and  quite  the  rest 
of  their  days — so  long  as  the  old  woman's  back  don't  fail 
her  at  the  washtoob  and  the  old  man  can  lift  a  pick  and 
lave  it  fall. 

"The  childer  is  surprised  to  find  that  the  old  folks  has 
had  anny  money  they  might  have  borried,  but  it's  too 
late  now  to  lay  hold  of  it,  so  there's  grand  hilarity  in  the 
O'Meara  tribe  that  night,  and  the  old  couple  is  idiotic  with 
pride  in  their  home. 

"Finally  the  old  woman  grows  garrulious  wit'  pride 
and  other  things,  and  she  cackles,  'We're  all  proud  of 
the  roof  that  shelters  us,  and  Mary  be  praised  for  it,  but 
it's  a  prouder  day  that  none  of  our  childher  is  in  disgrace 
and  that  wan  of  thim — I  needn't  say  which — wan  of 
thim  is  in  a  bank,  trusted  and  respected  be  the  rich  and 
the  powerful.' 

"And  Father  O'Brine  adds  a  few  words  tellin'  how 

240 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

proud  he  was  for  to  have  Dermot  in  his  parish,  and  hadn't 
he  married  yoong  and  raised  childer  and  been  a  credit  to 
the  Church  and  the  nation,  and  were  there  more  like 
him  it  would  be  well  and  betther. 

"And  the  old  man  O'Meara  is  so  overcoom  wit*  pros 
perity  and  beer  that  he  thries  to  take  Dermot  on  his  lap 
and  kiss  him  like  he  was  a  babby  again.  And  such  laugh 
ter  and  cacklin'  from  the  rest  as  you'd  think  it  was  a 
wake. 

"It  was  haird  sleddin'  for  Dermot,  that  dinner.  The 
more  he  blushed  and  begged  off  the  more  they  praised  his 
modesty.  He  had  a  wild  wish  for  to  tell  them  then  and 
there,  for  his  secret  was  fair  sweatin'  through  the  pores  of 
him,  but  he  thought  it  would  be  murderous  crool  to  spoil 
the  hilarity  of  the  old  people  with  such  a  blasht  as  that 
on  the  wan  glorious  night  of  their  haird  lives. 

"So  he  told  them  he  had  to  be  goin'  and  he  wint — 
straight  for  the  river. 

"But  on  the  brink  he  paused.  He  could  ind  his  own 
troubles  there,  but  he'd  lave  behind  him  poverty  and  dis 
grace  for  the  others  to  fight,  and  he  not  there  for  them 
to  lane  on.  So  he  wint  away  from  the  comfortable- 
lookin'  river  and  crawled  back  to  his  lonely  flat  with  no 
wife  or  chicks  to  cheer  him  and  only  the  creakin'  furniture 
lookin'  unpaid  instalamints  at  him.  He  found  there  a 
letter  from  his  wife — she  was  comin'  to  her  time  and  she 
was  wearyin'  for  him  to  hold  her  hand  and —  Well,  he 
did  a  dishonorable  selfish  thing  for  once — he  just  laid 
down  on  his  bed  and  cried  like  a  gerl. 

"The  next  morning,  a  Sathurda,  he  was  half  a  minyute 
late  to  the  bank  and  he  found  ivery  wan  in  a  flurry.  A 
tip  had  come  that  a  State  bank-examiner  was  arrivin' 
Moonda  marnin'  to  surprise  them.  Everybody  was  set 
to  work  cl'anin'  up  for  inspection. 

241 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"  And  now  Dermot  O'Meara  knew  he  was  like  a  man  in 
a  burnin'  ship.  He  could  stay  aboard  and  be  cooked,  or 
step  off  and  be  dhrowned. 

VI 

"The  president  and  cashier  of  the  bank  and  the  whole 
foorce  worked  late  that  Sathurda  afther  the  dures  was 
closed,  but  alahng  about  four  on  the  clock  the  house- 
cl'anin'  is  done  and  iverybody  rehearsed  to  look  surprised 
whin  the  inspecthor  turns  up  Moonda  marnin'. 

"The  laste  excited  mimber  of  the  whole  crew  was  Der 
mot  O'Meara.  He'd  had  ahl  the  excitement  in  him  wore 
out  in  the  pasht  few  months.  But  whin  he  takes  the 
lasht  boondle  of  lahng  green  into  the  safe  he  passes  a 
nate  packudge  of  bills  into  his  inside  pocket.  There's  a 
label  round  thim  with  a  lahng  pin  into  it,  and  it's  marked 
$2,000.  He  might  have  taken  tin  thousand  while  he 
was  at  it,  but  his  sinse  of  honor  to  the  bank  held  him 
back. 

"It  made  a  perceptible  boolge  in  his  right  side,  but 
iverybody  was  in  that  haste  to  be  off,  nobody  noticed 
it.  Dermot  had  sint  his  soot-case  to  the  station  in  the 
marnin',  and  now  he  took  a  street-cair  to  the  New  York 
Cintheral  and  stepped  aboard  the  five-o'clock  ixpress. 

"He  was  knockin'  at  his  wife's  dure  in  the  hotel  the 
next  marnin'  befoor  she  was  up.  She  was  scared  to  see 
him,  but  the  childer  attackted  him  as  if  they  was  a  band 
of  Indians,  and  nightgowns  was  flyin'  through  the  air 
like  the  week's  wash  in  a  high  win*. 

"As  soon  as  iver  he'd  disentangled  himself  from  tne 
childer  he  sint  thim  off  to  breakfast  and  tould  his  wife 
he  had  asked  for  a  vacation  so  as  to  be  with  her  and  hould 
her  hand  like  she  wrote  him  for  to  do.  But  since  he  was 
tired  of  people  and  n'ise,  would  she  mind  lavin'  the  hotel 

242 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

for  a  smaller  wan  in  the  woods,  where  he  could  have  a  bit 
of  fishin'  to  rest  his  nerves? 

"If  she  suspicioned  annything,  she  was  afraid  to  pay 
attintion  to  it  just  thin,  and  he  managed  to  get  his  flock 
away  from  the  hotel  and  vanish  into  the  wilderness, 
lavin'  no  clue  whativer.  He'd  been  plannin'  it  and  he 
pulled  it  off  as  nate  as  if  he  was  old  Settin'  Bull  slippin' 
his  squaws  and  all  through  a  cordon  of  the  United  States 
Airmy. 

"It  wouid  take  a  bookmaker  to  tell  how  he  moved 
from  place  to  place  like  a  hunted  animal  with  his  pack, 
but  he  managed  it.  He  wasn't  missed  at  the  bank  till 
Moonda  noon,  and  thin  a  note  arrived  sayin'  he  was 
called  away  be  sudden  sickness.  The  hue  and  cry  wasn't 
raised  till  a  Win'sda. 

"Whin  the  baby  was  born,  it  was  in  the  North  Woods 
of  Canady.  A  few  days  later  the  proud  father  took  his 
wife  out  into  the  forest  and  tould  her  the  whole  thing. 
It  was  a  sad  day  for  her,  but  he  persuaded  her  that  his 
motives  was  all  honorable  and  for  the  sake  of  his  family, 
however  they  boomped  against  the  moral  codes  of  the 
lah.  And  she  believed  him.  Sure,  hadn't  she  proof  of 
it  in  the  miserable,  forlorn,  pale-faced  scrawn  he  was? 

"So  now  a  woman's  wit  was  added  to  the  man's  and 
they  moved  farther  north  to  a  new  mining-camp  and 
changed  their  name  and  taught  the  childer  a  new  game 
of  pretindin'  to  belahng  to  the  family  of  McCann. 

"Dermot  tried  for  to  make  a  killin'  in  the  mines,  for 
the  fever  was  in  his  blood;  the  millionaire  microbes  filled 
his  system,  and  he  dramed  of  payin'  the  bank  back  and 
clanin'  the  slate  for  a  new  start.  But  fate  was  against 
him.  It  was  surprisin'  how  manny  people  wanted  to  know 
his  past  histhry,  and  the  childer  kept  forgettin'  the  pairts 
he  had  learned  them. 
J7  243 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Wan  day  O'Meara  heard  that  there  was  a  stranger  in 
camp  makin'  inquiries  about  him,  and  he  knew  his  hour 
had  coom.  He  knew  that  thim  banks  niver  let  up  on  a 
man,  and  he  had  another  sarious  tahk  with  his  poor  wife. 
He  put  into  her  hands  ahl  that  was  left  of  his  two  thou 
sand  except  a  hundred  for  himself,  and  that  night  he 
stroock  out  across  the  mountains  to  another  railroad. 

"He  didn't  dare  lave  his  wife  know  his  whereabouts. 
Faith,  he  hardly  knew  them  himself.  His  ups  and  downs 
was  ahl  downs,  and  in  three  months  or  so  he  turned  up 
in  a  horsepital  in  San  Francisco  in  a  delirium  of  typhoid. 
He  got  his  sacrits  off  his  chist  at  last  and  the  trained 
nurse,  who  was  sweet  on  a  plain-clothes  man,  passed 
thim  alahng.  She  figured  that  the  rewaird  would  make 
a  nice  nest-egg  for  to  be  married  on.  And  whin  Dermot 
O'Meara  came  out  of  his  thrance  it  was  to  find  a  copper 
for  a  nurse. 

"They  took  him  back  to  New  York  as  soon  as  he  was 
able  for  the  journey,  and  he  tould  me  it  was  a  joy  to  have 
an  ind  to  the  game  of  hide-and-seek,  with  him  ahlways  It." 


VII 

Canavan  paused  to  light  a  fresh  cigar  and  Mrs.  Cad- 
bury  sighed. 

"So  that  was  the  end  of  your  honorable  gentleman's 
problems." 

"The  end?"  said  Canavan.  "It  was  only  the  front 
end  of  his  throubles.  That's  what  I'm  afther  sayin'. 
People  seem  to  think  that  honor  is  a  matther  of  a  few 
decisions  here  and  there.  Honor  is  like  breathin'.  You're 
usin'  it  ahl  day  long. 

"No  sooner  was  poor  Dermot  safely  in  cold  storudge 
than  he  was  approached  by  the  surety  company  that  had 

244 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

gone  his  bond.  They  had  been  scout  in'  round  to  find 
some  way  of  savin'  themselves  from  makin'  up  what 
Dermot  had  appropriated. 

"  Somehow  they  had  learned  that  old  man  O'Meara  had 
a  family  home  up  at  999  East  999t'  Street,  or  wheriver 
it  was.  They  had  brought  pressure  to  bear  on  the  an 
cient  couple,  and  their  hearts  were  that  broke  and  their 
pride  that  blashted,  they'd  have  pawned  their  souls  for 
the  lad. 

"So  down  to  the  Tombs  prison  comes  the  agent  of 
the  bonding  company,  that  oily  with  smiles  the  rain 
would  have  run  off  him.  'It's  ahl  right,  Mr.  O'Meara,'  he 
says,  'it's  ahl  right!  Your  throubles  are  over  and  done. 
Your  father  and  your  mudther  have  nobly  agreed  to 
martgage  their  home  for  the  two  thousand  dollars.  The 
bank  has  consinted  to  accept  resthitution  and  shtop 
prosecution,  and  you'll  go  free.' " 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Cadbury  wanted  to  applaud,  like 
an  East  Side  mind  at  a  melodrama.  "How  splendid!" 
she  cried.  "Those  poor  people  often  have  the  noblest 
motives,  haven't  they?  Think  of  that  old  couple  sacri 
ficing  themselves  so  gloriously  for  their  son." 

Canavan  looked  at  her  as  if  a  child  had  spoken  at  a 
political  caucus.  He  smiled  dolefully. 

'"Think  of  that  old  couple,'  you  say.  That's  what 
Dermot  O'Meara  thought  of.  And  it  was  haird  thinkin'. 
On  wan  side  was  freedom  for  himself,  another  chance  to 
win  back,  and  the  soci'ty  of  his  wife  and  his  childer. 
On  the  other  side  was  the  prison,  the  losin'  of  his  years, 
and  losin'  of  his  vote — that's  a  big  thing  to  an  Irishman, 
losin'  his  vote.  He  had  his  mouth  open  to  say  'Glory 
be!'  whin  he  remimbered  his  father  and  mudther.  He 
remimbered  the  dinner  they  gave,  the  pride  they  took 
in  the  house  they  had  bought  for  to  shelter  their  white 

245 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

hairs.  He  saw  the  sthruggle  they'd  make  to  pay  the 
interest  and  to  pay  off  the  martgage,  and  the  sure  black 
day  whin  they  would  be  foreclosed,  turned  adrift  with 
broken  backs,  broken  lives,  and  the  big  terror  in  their 
old  gray  souls. 

"He  wanted  to  take  the  money;  he  wanted  to  chance 
the  future;  he  wanted  to  believe  that  he'd  win  out  big 
yet.  But  exparience  had  learned  him  that  such  things 
happen  oftener  in  fairy  stories  than  in  rale  life,  and 
somethin'  inside  of  him  said  'No!'  Somethin'  took  him 
be  the  throat  like  a  parolysis.  He  could  not  consint. 
When  he  shook  his  head  the  agent  turned  scairlet  with 
rage  and  called  him  a  fool  and  a  scoundrel,  but  he  shook 
his  head. 

"Dermot  begged  the  agent  to  lave  him  free  till  he 
could  work  and  pay  back  what  he  had  lifted  from  the 
bank.  But  the  man  laughed  at  him.  He  threatened 
him  with  the  full  limit  of  the  lah  if  he  didn't  consint  to 
the  martgage.  But  O'Meara  said  'No'!  The  agent  sint 
for  Mrs.  O'Meara  and  she  begged  the  lad  to  take  anny- 
thing  from  annybody  rather  than  go  into  the  dark  volley 
of  livin'  death.  But  he  said  'No.' 

"It  was  his  sinse  of  honor,  of  coorse,  and  naught  else 
that  made  him  do  it.  It  was  love  of  his  wife  and  his 
childer  that  had  drove  him  to  the  airly  crimes.  A  man 
of  less  honor  of  wan  kind  and  more  honor  of  the  usual 
would  have  left  his  family  to  sicken  and  starve  from  the 
first,  but  Dermot  couldn't  do  that.  And  he  couldn't 
lave  his  old  folks  buy  him  out  of  the  deep  hole  with 
the  price  of  their  own  last  pinny. 

"Dermot's  wife  turned  against  him  and  called  him  a 
baste  with  a  hairt  of  stone.  But  Dermot  said  'No/ 
The  agent  called  him  ivery  name  he  could  lay  tongue 
to,  but  Dermot  said  'No.'  The  bank  pushed  the  prose- 

246 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

cution  and  Dermot  got  the  limit.  It  was  a  shatthered 
man  they  took  up  to  Sing  Sing,  and  they  jammed  him 
in  with  crooks  that  had  broken  into  houses,  broken  skulls, 
stolen  for  the  love  of  luxury  and  for  the  scorn  of  dacincy. 
There's  no  drawin'  of  fine  lines  in  Sing  Sing. 

"But  me — well,  somehow  I've  always  felt  that  I'd 
rather  have  been  Dermot  O'Meara  goin'  to  jail  than  some 
min  goin'  to  Congress.  I'd  have  held  me  head  higher." 

Mrs.  Cadbury,  the  exquisite  and  the  inconsequential, 
the  dandled  pet  of  luxury  who  had  never  in  her  life  known 
the  remotest  approach  to  moneylessness,  stared  at  Cana- 
van  and  studied  him.  In  him  she  seemed  to  study  the 
whole  of  that  foreign  world  of  his  where  people  do  in 
cessant  battle  on  the  steep  edge  of  the  ravine  of  pauper- 
dom,  where  the  solid  ground  is  just  a  few  inches  from  the 
direst  want. 

She  felt  that  her  own  life  had  been  a  mere  tinsel  flip 
pancy.  She  was  a  doll  at  the  side  of  this  man,  this 
tragic,  life-bruised  man,  uncouth  but  acquainted  with 
realities.  She  was  Helen  of  Troy  on  the  walls,  and  the 
amusing  politician  was  a  Hector  home  from  the  wars, 
victorious  himself,  but  saddened  with  the  memory  of 
companions  who  had  been  crushed  and  trampled  under 
in  the  tumult. 

Her  life  seemed  to  have  been  but  a  gliding  about  in 
artificial  pleasances  like  the  Park,  through  whose  smooth 
roads  her  automobile  was  smoothly  sweeping.  Outside, 
she  knew,  were  the  hard  streets  where  millions  were 
waging  the  struggle  for  life. 

She  was  pondering  aloud: 

"I  know  the  Governor  very  well.  I'm  to  be  at  a 
dinner  with  him  next  week.  I  wonder  if  I  paid  back  what 
the  poor  fellow  stole — borrowed;  and  if  I  guaranteed  to 
see  to  his  future — I  wonder  if  the  Governor  wouldn't — " 

247 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"God  love  you  for  a — "  Canavan  began. 

Just  then  the  car  shot  through  a  curving  glade  and 
a  tattered  little  boy  playing  ball  with  a  friend  leaped 
backward  into  the  road  to  catch  a  wild  throw.  He 
leaped  into  the  front  wheel  and  was  borne  down,  spun 
round,  butted  hideously  along  the  gravel,  and  then — the 
wheel  rose  and  thumped  as  it  passed  across  the  little  sack 
of  bones. 

Before  the  frantic  chauffeur  could  bring  the  car  to 
a  stop  the  rear  wheels,  too,  had  risen  and  thumped. 

Canavan  had  been  smitten  aghast  by  the  suddenness 
of  the  disaster.  He  was  used  to  quick  action  in  a  crisis, 
but  here  he  was  a  passenger,  far  from  wheel  or  brake. 
He  was  abjectly  helpless.  He  saw  Mrs.  Cadbury  glance 
back,  then  forward.  No  one  was  in  sight  except  the  ter 
rified  playmate  fleeing  in  the  distance.  The  road  was 
clear.  Mrs.  Cadbury  bent  forward  to  call  to  the  chauffeur. 

' '  Franc,  ois,  quick — quick ! ' '  Her  frantic  eyes  caught  Can- 
avan's  dumb  stare.  She  finished  her  sentence:  "Quick — 
let  me  out!  I  must  go  to  the  child !" 

Canavan  wrenched  the  door  open  as  she  flitted  past 
and  tottered  down  the  steps.  Before  he  could  swing  to 
the  ground  she  was  kneeling  in  the  dust  with  the  dusty 
little  wreck  of  childhood  in  her  lap.  She  was  staggering 
to  her  feet  and  tripping  on  her  own  skirts  when  Canavan 
took  the  limp  form  from  her  arms. 

They  got  back  in  the  car  and  now  it  was  full  speed 
for  the  nearest  hospital,  past  staring  crowds  that  saw  a 
disheveled  beauty  with  a  lavish  hat  askew,  and  mopping 
with  a  lace  handkerchief  the  dust  from  a  ghastly  white 
ragamuffin. 

At  the  hospital  it  was  hard  to  say,  from  the  looks  of 
them,  which  had  been  rolled  in  the  dust,  Mrs.  Cadbury 
or  the  child  she  carried.  Perhaps  some  extra  attentions 

248 


THE   AFTER-HONOR 

were  paid  to  the  real  victim  when  it  was  learned  that  the 
great  Mrs.  Cadbury  stood  sponsor  for  him.  Reporters 
somehow  seemed  to  spring  out  of  the  ground,  and  a  pho 
tographer  set  up  his  terrifying  tripod  to  catch  her  as  she 
came  forth  from  the  hospital. 

She  had  made  the  doctors  learn  from  the  child  his 
home  address  as  soon  as  they  brought  him  back  to  the 
agony  of  consciousness,  and  she  was  off  again  in  her 
motor. 

"I  must  find  his  mother  and  break  the  news  to  her 
and  bring  her  here  in  the  car,"  she  was  chattering  to 
Canavan. 

Throughout  the  last  half -hour  Canavan  had  felt  use 
less  and  awkward.  And  even  now  he  could  only  stare 
in  unusual  homage.  But  he  was  too  sincerely  impressed 
for  blarney.  The  best  he  could  manage  to  hand  her 
was  a  peculiarly  Canavannish  posy: 

"  There's  mateerial  in  you,  Mrs.  Cadbury.  I'll  have 
you  educated  yet  so  that  you'll  be  a  credit  to  me  wan  of 
these  fine  days." 


IX 

THE   BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

T  EAN  little  Mollie  Finneran  had  just  lost  her  job.  It 
"  was  not  much  of  a  job,  but  she  was  even  less  of  a 
success  at  it. 

It  was  not  for  lack  of  ambition  on  the  part  of  her 
father  and  mother.  They  had  wasted  as  little  time  on 
her  education  as  the  truant  officer  had  permitted.  They 
had  not  pampered  her;  they  had  not  weakened  her  with 
luxuries  and  rich  foods.  In  fact,  they  had  almost  trained 
her  to  the  ideal  point  of  getting  along  on  nothing  at  all. 
But  the  best  they  could  secure  for  her  in  the  way  of 
employment  was  this  job  as  cash-girl.  She  got  three 
dollars  a  week,  and  didn't  get  it.  Her  parents  got  it. 

She  was  required  to  carry  home  the  entire  three  dol 
lars.  From  this  she  received  a  modest  dole  for  car  fare 
— one  way — and  for  lunch.  By  the  latter  part  of  the 
week,  as  it  usually  befell,  her  father  or  mother  had  spent 
the  balance  at  the  liquor-store,  and  Sliver  omitted  the 
midday  meal.  But  when  Sliver  could  afford  a  luncheon 
it  was  usually  taken  at  the  ice-cream-soda  fountain,  where 
a  mess  of  syrupy  aniline  dye,  a  pledget  of  adulterated 
ice-cream  and  a  froth  of  imitation  carbonic  bribed  her 
palate  and  left  her  insides  in  a  state  of  nausea  that  proved 
a  splendid  antidote  to  appetite.  She  was  almost  incred 
ibly  thin,  and  was  called  "Sliver"  for  reasons  all  too 
manifest. 

250 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

But  Sliver  was  not  a  success  as  a  cash-girl.  If  she 
had  had  food  oftener,  or  had  not  been  placed  ironically 
in  a  parish  of  tinware  bounded  on  one  side  by  a  delica 
tessen  department  and  on  the  other  by  a  candy  counter, 
she  might  have  had  more  soul  to  give  to  her  business. 
The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts,  and  Sliver 
thought  how  long  it  was  between  meals. 

Sometimes  the  mirage  of  things  to  eat  would  so  fasci 
nate  her  that  she  became  a  wax  figure  of  meditation, 
deaf  to  the  loud  tappings  of  pencils  on  showcases  and 
the  reiterated  wails  of  "Messenger!  Mess'njah!  Mes- 
sunjurrr!" 

For  weeks  the  saleswomen  scolded  her,  and  the  aisle- 
managers  yanked  her  by  the  ear  out  of  her  dreams.  Then 
the  slack  season  arrived  and  they  asked  for  her  resig 
nation — offered  her  her  portfolio. 

She  accepted  her  exile  with  fine  pride.  Her  language 
was  not  so  graceful  as  Rosalind's  " Banished!  What's 
banished,  but  set  free?"  But  its  spirit  was  the  same. 

"I'm  toined  down,  am  I?"  she  sneered.  "Well,  it's  a 
bum  joint,  anyway,  and  used  up  too  much  of  me  time." 

She  accepted  the  pay-envelope  with  disdain,  and  prom 
ised  to  give  it  to  the  poor. 

She  made  a  good  exit,  but  once  outside  she  felt  as 
crushed  as  if  the  building  had  fallen  over  on  her. 

She  wondered  what  her  family  would  do  now  without 
her  three  dollars,  and  how  she  should  kill  time  in  the 
miserable  streets  or  in  the  miserabler  top  floor  back. 
She  feared  a  beating,  many  beatings.  She  resolved  not 
to  go  home  at  all. 

Even  as  she  planned  revolt  her  feet,  like  a  team  of 
old  horses,  turned  aside  at  a  bakery  window  where  she 
always  paused  as  before  a  roadside  altar.  If  only  she 
had  some  money  of  her  very  own!  If  only  she  could 

251 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

squander  even  a  dime  on  doughnuts!  She  felt  that  she 
could  do  desperate  deeds  for  a  cream-puff.  What  wouldn't 
she  do  for  money  enough  to  evoke  that  musical  cry: 
' '  Brown  the  wheats !  Draw  one !" 

A  young  reporter  hurrying  down  the  ugly  street  paused 
to  gaze  at  her.  He  had  written  verses  in  college  and 
he  still  poetized  everything,  to  the  great  wear  and  tear 
of  blue  pencils  at  the  copy-desk.  So  now  he  saw  a  pro 
phetic  wistfulness  in  Sliver's  attitude,  and  in  her  over 
grown  eyes  the  darkling  of  a  love-dawn. 

As  he  made  off  on  his  errand  he  stopped  short  again, 
for  he  noted  that  the  girl  was  observed  by  an  elderly 
man  whose  swart  and  villainous  mien  was  struck  across 
with  a  black  mustache  and  buried  in  a  perfidious  fur 
overcoat.  This  evident  scoundrel  halted  and  stared  at 
the  girl  with  approval. 

But  the  swart  knave  moved  on  without  speaking  and 
the  reporter  went  his  way,  too,  looking  back  and  won 
dering  what  dreams  of  love  they  were  that  must  be  thrill 
ing  the  shabby  little,  thin  little,  quaint  little  creature 
poised  in  reverie  before  the  baker's  window.  And  so  he 
passed  out  of  Sliver's  life.  But  the  swart  man  came  back. 

The  reporter  had  thought  that  Sliver  was  musing  upon 
love.  The  swart  man  had  thought  she  stared  enviously 
at  the  lithograph  in  the  window.  This  pictured  "Carl 
Bruni's  Flying  Swallows,"  a  sextet  of  girls  appearing  in 
a  cheap  vaudeville  theater  near  at  hand. 

But  Sliver  was  meditating  neither  love  nor  lithograph. 
She  was  musing  on  a  little  squad  of  eclairs  well  polished 
with  counterfeit  chocolate,  and  a  golden  beach  of  Apfel- 
kuchen  made  out  of  dried  apples,  and  a  dark  mountain 
of  mock  gingerbread,  an  Alp  of  frosted  cake  composed  of 
eggs,  and  a  pseudo-pumpkin  pie  as  large  and  ruddy  as  a 
harvest  moon. 

252 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF    SWEETS 

At  the  heart  of  each  of  us  at  least  one  little  mouse 
gnaws  and  gnaws  and  hardly  ever  rests.  With  some  it  is 
remorse,  with  others  ambition,  or  love,  or  jealousy,  or 
avarice,  or  grief.  With  Mollie  Finneran  it  was  hunger. 

Sliver  had  always  been  hungry.  Never  once  in  her  life 
had  she  had  enough  to  eat.  As  far  back  as  she  could 
remember  Sliver  had  known  famine  and  nothing  else. 

Wild  thoughts  of  buying  three  dollars'  worth  of  part 
nership  in  the  bakery  shop  went  like  Roman  candles 
through  her  brain.  But  she  knew  that  she  would  take  the 
money  home,  and  if  she  met  the  usual  abuse  for  being 
late,  the  usual  suspicions  that  she  had  never  justified, 
and  the  ruthless  punishment  for  losing  her  job,  she  would 
accept  these  also  as  part  of  the  weather. 

She  bent  a  farewell  look  on  the  blissful  vision  of  food, 
and  she  wept  a  little  because  life  was  so  bitter  and  cake 
so  sweet,  and  she  could  not  have  any  cake. 

It  was  at  this  crisis  in  her  soul  that  the  swart  man 
returned  upon  his  steps  and,  drawing  close  to  where  she 
pined  before  the  baker's  window,  murmured  to  her  with 
a  foreign  accent.  And  as  everybody  who  can  read  knows, 
a  foreign  accent  is  a  proof  of  a  villainous  disposition. 

"Say,  keed,  you  wanna  make  beeg  money,  huh?" 

Sliver's  self-respect  was  militant  at  once.  She  whirled 
on  the  stranger  with  a  fierce  snap : 

"Beat  it,  you  big  boob,  or  I'll  holler  for  the  bulls." 

Sliver  was  virtuous  almost  to  the  point  of  viciousness. 

The  old  villain  backed  away  with  haste,  and  the  storm 
of  rage  left  Sliver's  heart  almost  as  quickly.  Young  as 
she  was,  she  was  used  to  such  encounters.  She  accepted 
them  as  rain  or  soot.  Bad  as  her  home  was,  unguarded 
as  she  was  from  the  evils  that  crowded  about  her,  she  had 
walked  thus  far  through  the  world  without  contamination. 

She  resumed  her  contemplation  of  the  baker's  Para- 

253 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

dise.  She  wept  with  craving.  A  sniffling  sob  was  cut 
in  half  by  a  sudden  remembrance  of  the  words  "big 
money."  Big  money  meant  big  meals.  Perhaps  the 
voice  had  been  from  heaven  instead  of  the  other  place. 
Some  angel  may  have  offered  her  big  money,  and  she 
had  answered  with  insult! 

Then,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  she  seemed  to  have  wished 
the  angel  back.  Over  her  sob-shaken  shoulder  came  that 
dulcet  voice  again: 

"Dawn't  git  mad,  keed;  but  dawn't  you  wanna  make 
da  beeg  money  queeck?" 

Sliver  turned  and  studied  the  angel.  He  wore  little 
glossy  shoes  and  a  fur-lined  overcoat  and  a  shabby  silk 
hat.  This  was  plainly  no  angel;  and  if  he  were  a  devil, 
Sliver  felt  that  she  could  exorcise  him  with  one  swift 
kick  on  the  shins  or  an  elbow  drive  in  his  stomach.  And 
she  could  always  bite  and  scratch.  Reassured,  she  mocked 
him  with  skeptical  contempt. 

' '  Ah,  go  ahn !    Whaddaya  mean — beeg  money  queeck  ? ' ' 

The  Italian  took  courage;  he  pointed  with  a  much- 
ringed  hand  at  the  lithograph  in  the  window. 

"See  dat  pitture,  huh?  'Bruni's  Flyeen  Svallows,'  huh? 
lamBruni!" 

"Ah,  go  ahn!"  said  Sliver,  masking  her  awe. 

"Sure,  I  am  Bruni.  I  invent  dose  svallows,  and  bring 
to  America  from  Eetaly,  yas!  Ve  play  now  at  deesa 
t'eater  right  here,  huh?  You  have  not  see  my  svallows, 
huh?  You  come  see  now." 

Sliver's  heart  sank.  So  it  was  only  a  scheme  to  get 
her  money.  This  old  scoundrel  was  a  runner-in,  a  bally 
hoo,  for  the  five-ten-and-fifteen-cent  palace  where  worn- 
out  vaudeville  acts  and  tattered  films  were  alternated. 

Sliver  sneered  at  the  old  man  and  shook  off  the  hand 
that  seized  her  arm  with  urgence. 

254 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

"Ah,  go  ahn!    You  said  I  could  make  big  money." 

"Sure!  One  of  my  svallows  she  is  get  seeck;  she  can 
not  maka  de  jomp  to  Patersona.  I  most  get  a  new 
svallow.  I  offer  you  de  job." 

"Ah,  go—    What  would  I  have  to  do?" 

"Awnly  to  fly — fly  in  de  air." 

"Ah,  go  ahn!    I  can't  fly.     I  never  loined  to  fly." 

Mr.  Bruni  laughed  with  indulgent  patience.  Sliver 
came  back  to  the  main  issue.  "You  was  talkin'  big 
money.  How  much  do  you  slip  your  swallers?" 

"Six—" 

He  was  going  to  say  "sixteen."  She  thought  he  was 
about  to  say  "six,"  and  her  heart  leaped  with  joy.  He 
slyly  fell  to  "twelve,"  not  knowing  that  he  had  doubled 
the  sum  in  her  eyes  and  quadrupled  her  latest  wage. 
Twelve  dollars  a  week!  Was  he  offering  her  as  much  a 
week  for  floating  in  the  air  as  she  had  earned  in  a  month 
for  lugging  her  feet  along  the  department  store  Marathon? 

' '  Twelve  dollars, ' '  she  sneered.  ' '  Twelve  nothin' .  Ah, 
go  ahn!"  Mr.  Bruni  nodded  violently.  Sliver  would 
have  fainted,  but  she  had  never  learned  that,  either. 

Mr.  Bruni,  seeing  that  she  was  wavering,  pressed  his 
cause. 

"You  come  see  my  svallows  now — right  here,  huh?" 

Sliver  had  no  money  except  the  three  greasy  bills  which 
were  impatiently  awaited  at  home.  She  hesitated,  then 
spoke  with  hauteur: 

"I  got  no  small  change." 

Bruni  laughed.  "It  cost  you  not  wan  penny.  I  pass 
you  in." 

It  is  believed  that  no  layman  exists  so  rich  as  not  to 
be  elated  at  the  thought  of  entering  a  theater  on  a  pass. 
To  Sliver  it  was  just  a  little  more  flattering  than  if  St. 
Peter  had  invited  her  to  walk  into  heaven  without  penance. 

255 


LONG    EVER    AGO 

She  found  herself  in  a  cave  of  gloom  at  whose  farther 
end  a  Niagara  of  pictures  was  cascading.  She  felt  the 
little  hand  of  the  old  man  take  her  arm.  It  was  like 
grasping  a  rolled-up  umbrella. 

After  a  thousand  feet  of  cowboy  adventure  had  reeled 
past  the  fascinated  eyes  of  Sliver,  a  melancholy  youth 
set  out  a  placard  announcing  the  "Engagement  Extraor 
dinary  of  the  World  Famous  Bruni's  Swallows,  by  Carl 
Bruni."  The  pianist  chopped  the  piano  with  the  vigor 
due  to  an  engagement  extraordinary,  and  the  tarnished 
old  curtain  went  up  with  importance,  disclosing  six  young 
girls,  all  of  a  size,  all  slim  and  sprightly,  all  clad  in  feathers, 
with  the  heads  of  birds  for  caps,  with  wings  for  sleeves 
and  swallow  tails  for  trains. 

They  sang  and  danced,  and  to  Sliver  they  were  a  choir 
of  seraphim.  Suddenly  at  the  end  of  their  dance  they 
rose  straight  in  the  air,  with  their  wings  outspread  and 
their  pink  legs  and  slippered  feet  far  back. 

Sliver  rose  with  them  in  exultation  as  if  one  of  Mr. 
Bruni's  wires  were  already  affixed  to  her  belt.  She  stood 
rapt  till  a  harsh  voice  from  the  rear  growled,  "Down 
in  front!"  Then  she  dropped  to  her  seat,  but  her  soul 
went  on  rising  and  falling,  swooping  and  soaring,  with 
the  enchanted  birds. 

Sliver  felt  that  heaven  had  fairly  broken  open  about 
her  head.  She  was  to  sing  and  dance  and  fly  and  get 
a  million  dollars  a  week  for  it.  It  was  like  being  paid 
to  see  Coney  Island. 

Mr.  Bruni  had  brought  the  original  swallows  to  this 
country  from  Italy  a  score  of  years  before  and  made  a 
profound  sensation  in  a  spectacular  production.  The 
charter  swallows  had  long  since  outgrown  their  fledgling 
days.  Mr.  Bruni  himself  had  been  in  his  time  a  Harle 
quin;  famous,  for  a  Harlequin,  and  thin  and  lithe  as  his 

256 


THE    BITTERNESS    OF    SWEETS 

own  lath  sword.     He  had  since  taken  the  shape  of  an  old 
fat  hen  and  acquired  as  motherly  a  disposition. 

As  swallow  after  swallow  took  flight  from  age  or  over 
development  he  had  recruited  others.  Gradually,  as  the 
novelty  had  worn  off  the  idea  and  the  costumes,  he  had 
lapsed  slowly  from  a  Broadway  feature  to  a  roadway 
feature,  from  a  one-night-stand  sensation  to  vaudeville 
on  "the  big  time,"  thence  to  "the  family  time,"  "the 
big  smalt  time,"  "the  opposition"  big  time  and  small 
time.  Now  he  was  on  the  wee  small  time  and  his  glit 
tering  spectacle  was  sandwiched  between  moving  pictures. 

Another  year  would  see  him — where?  But  to  Sliver 
the  swallows  were  now  what  they  had  been  to  Broadway 
twenty  years  before.  To  her  the  obsolescent  little  man 
was  a  great  manager,  the  tiny  fire-trap  theater  was  a 
temple  of  wonders.  To  be  one  of  these  swallows!  To 
flit  through  such  scenes !  Then  fairy  stories  did  come  true ! 

When  the  curtain  fell  on  the  birds,  all  lyrical  and  afloat 
in  the  air,  Sliver  beat  her  palms  raw  in  applause. 

In  the  lobby  of  the  theater  Bruni  said: 

"Veil,  you  like  my  svallows — huh?" 

"Great,  Mr.  Bruni,"  said  Sliver  with  the  manner  of 
an  expert;  "they're  simpully  great." 

"You  like  to  be  one— huh?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  be  one,"  said  Sliver. 

Mr.  Bruni,  like  many  another  villainous-looking  man, 
had  a  matronly  soul.  He  said:  "Your  mawther  geeves 
her  consent — huh  ? ' ' 

"Me  ma?"  said  Sliver.  "Sure  she  will."  She  knew 
that  her  mother  would  refuse — less  because  she  feared 
for  Sliver  than  because  she  feared  for  the  pay  envelope. 
But  Sliver  was  determined  that  nothing  should  stop  her 
from  realizing  this  opportunity.  It  was  so  inconceivably 
beautiful  that  she  said: 

257 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

"Say,  why  did  you  pick  me  out  for  this  when  so  many 
goils  are  so  much  classier?" 

She  wondered  why  he  had  not  selected  Sarar  Boin- 
hardt,  or  Mord  Adams,  or  Juliar  Marler  for  the  vacant 
position. 

Mr.  Bruni  was  too  gracious  a  gentleman  to  confess  that 
he  chose  Sliver  because  she  was  a  sliver,  and  because  she 
was  at  hand  and  looked  cheap.  He  explained  that  he 
had  an  eye  for  genius  and  could  tell  a  born  swallow  the 
moment  he  saw  one. 

He  was  so  paternal  that  Sliver  broached  the  question 
of  expenses.  She  confessed  that  she  was  a  little  short 
of  money  just  now.  He  volunteered  to  be  security  for  her 
board  for  the  first  week  and  to  furnish  her  costume.  He 
added  that  he  would  also  pay  her  railroad  fares — which 
struck  her  as  mighty  generous. 

She  ran  home  to  bid  her  mother  farewell.  She  found 
the  flat  empty;  she  judged  from  the  signs  of  struggle  that 
her  parents  had  had  another  argument.  The  flat-iron 
had  left  another  dent  in  the  wall  and  its  nose  was  cov 
ered  with  plaster.  A  neighbor  informed  Sliver  that  her 
father  and  mother  had  left  the  house  for  a  ride  in  the 
picnic  wagon  the  city  kept  at  their  disposal.  The  neigh 
bor  guessed  that  they  would  doubtless  "get  the  Island 
for  another  thirty. "  So  Sliver  did  not  leave  the  three 
dollars,  but  merely  a  little  note: 

dear  ma  i  bin  fired  at  the  store  but  i  got  anothre  Jobe  in  nu 
jearsie  wil  rite  soon  yoor  loveinge  doughtre 

Then  she  sped  to  the  theater  and  asked  for  Mr.  Bruni. 
She  was  referred  to  the  stage  door.  This  was  too  glorious. 
She  found  Mr.  Bruni  and  he  led  her  up  an  iron  stairway 
to  a  tenement  of  dressing-rooms  and  introduced  her  to 

258 


THE    BITTERNESS    OF    SWEETS 

his  flock.  The  swallows  sat  about  in  their  feathers  and 
their  unmitigated  make-up.  Some  were  mending  their 
plumage,  one  was  reading  a  book,  one  was  sewing  at  a 
child's  clothing,  and  one  was  industriously  masticating 
gum. 

At  Mr.  Bruni  s  request  the  gum-chewer,  who  was  about 
to  leave  the  troupe,  permitted  Sliver  to  try  on  her  cos 
tume.  An  extra  pair  of  tights  was  found  and  Mr.  Bruni 
withdrew  while  Sliver  made  the  change  behind  a  chair. 

With  her  arms  bare  and  her  shanks  in  hose  a  world 
too  wide,  she  was  unimaginably  thin.  She  was  such  a 
pauper  in  flesh  that  Mr.  Bruni,  recalled  to  inspect  her, 
felt  sorry  for  her.  He  rebuked  with  a  glare  the  ridicule 
in  the  eyes  of  the  other  swallows,  and  told  Sliver  that  she 
looked  very  nice.  He  wondered  what  the  gallery  boys 
would  say  of  his  sixth  swallow,  and  he  dreaded  the  com 
ments  of  the  house-managers ;  but  he  was  still  more  afraid 
of  rejecting  this  pitiful  little  soul  that  had  paid  such 
reverence  to  him  and  his  achievement. 

When  she  had  doffed  her  splendor,  Sliver  was  per 
mitted  to  sit  in  the  wings  and  watch  the  swallows  do 
their  supper  turn  to  an  almost  empty  house.  It  as 
tounded  her  to  see  the  mechanism  at  work  and  to  realize 
that  the  lightly  flitting  swallows  were  raised  and  lowered 
on  wires  and  pulleys  controlled  by  stage-hands  in  over 
alls.  Such  romance  in  front  of  the  scene,  such  realism 
back  of  it !  But  she  was  bewitched  at  the  miracle  of  it  all. 
"  Yestiddy  a  cash-goil;  to-morra  a  boid!" 

She  slept  that  night  in  the  deserted  flat,  and  the  next 
morning  she  was  awake  at  the  first  streak  of  soiled  day 
break  that  pierced  the  dirty  window.  She  leaped  from 
her  slumber  and  pirouetted  and  danced,  took  flying  leaps 
from  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  from  the  table,  and  prac 
tised  aviation  till  the  neighbors  thought  her  father  and 

18  259 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

mother  must  have  escaped  from  the  law  and  resumed 
their  debates. 

Sliver  heated  as  much  water  as  the  clothes-boiler  would 
hold  and  bathed  in  it,  and  made  the  neatest  toilet  she 
could.  She  borrowed  an  old  telescope  bag  from  a  wealthy 
neighbor  and  packed  what  little  wardrobe  she  possessed. 

She  reached  the  theater  before  the  night  watchman  was 
awake.  The  hours  she  must  survive  before  Mr.  Bruni 
arrived  seemed  unendurable.  That  little  mouse,  forgot 
ten  in  her  excitement,  began  to  gnaw  at  her  stomach, 
and  she  realized  that  she  had  had  no  breakfast. 

She  went  to  the  nearest  of  Mr.  Childs's  lunch-rooms 
and  tried  to  look  professional.  She  wondered  what  lady 
actors  "et  in  rest 'runts."  She  ordered  &  breakfast  of 
such  variety  and  substance  that  the  waiter  grinned  as  he 
punched  hole  after  hole  in  her  ticket,  and  finally  com 
mented: 

"Say,  kiddo,  are  you  just  eatin'  your  last  Thanksgivin' 
dinner,  or  are  you  doin'  this  on  a  bet?" 

Sliver  answered  him  with  quiet  dignity: 

"Ah,  go  on,  you  big  stiff,  or  111  bounce  one  of  these 
cups  off  your  bean." 

He  knew  those  cups  and  he  went  on. 

But  when  Sliver  came  to  pay  for  the  feast  she  trembled, 
not  with  repletion,  but  with  terror,  at  the  inroad  on  her 
funds.  The  theat'ical  life  was  a  norful  expensuv  thing. 

She  hastened  back  to  the  theater  and  wheedled  the 
stage-door  man  into  admitting  her  to  the  dressing-room 
so  that  she  might  be  ready  when  Mr.  Bruni  came.  She 
flung  off  her  scant  and  material  rags  and  donned  her 
ethereal  pinions;  also  her  terrifying  pink  tights.  When 
Mr.  Bruni  finally  arrived  and  knocked  at  the  door  she 
felt  gusts  of  fright  sweeping  across  her  skin.  She  was 
ashamed  to  go  out  before  him.  But  no  one  was  present 

260 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

save  Mr.  Bruni  and  the  youth  who  had  hoisted  the 
swallow  she  was  to  supersede.  This  youth  Mr.  Bruni 
introduced  as  his  "asseestant,  Ned  Krook." 

Mr.  '«Krug  looked  Sliver  over  brazenly  and  snickered. 
She  flared  with  modesty  at  his  gaze  and  with  wrath  at 
his  smile,  but  she  said  nothing.  Mr.  Bruni  laid  off  his 
hat  and  his  fur  coat  and  his  other  coat  and  taught  Sliver 
the  dance  steps.  It  needed  all  her  reverence  for  him  to 
keep  down  her  amusement  at  his  appearance  as  he  flung 
his  barrel-like  body  this  way  or  that,  and  kicked  up  his 
short,  fat,  almost  kneeless  legs.  She  was  a  trial  to  his 
temper,  for  she  had  no  tradition,  instinct,  or  training  in 
the  dance,  and  he  had  no  breath  or  agility. 

After  roughing  out  the  steps  Mr.  Bruni  took  up  the 
flying  program. 

As  Ned  Krug  was  buckling  the  harness  on  Sliver  he 
murmured:  "You  two  was  cert'n'y  some  scream;  fat  old 
gander  tryin'  to  learn  a  squab  to  dance  a  toikey-trot. 
But  you're  all  right,  girlie;  you  and  me's  a  sketch.  We'll 
have  swell  times  togedder,  won't  we?" 

"Yes,  we  won't  we!"  was  Sliver's  only  answer. 

Krug  liked  her  haughty  manner.  He  mumbled:  "Sure 
we  will.  I'm  batty  about  you  and  you'll  find  me  a 
regular  feller.'1 

He  kept  his  hands  about  her  waist  longer  than  seemed 
necessary  and  Sliver  gave  him  a  smack  in  the  face.  It 
was  so  loud  that  Mr.  Bruni,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
stage,  turned  to  see  if  a  pulley  had  broken.  Sliver 
opened  her  mouth  to  demand: 

"Say,  Mr.  Bruni,  how  much  of  this  guy's  noive  have 
I  gotta  stand  for?" 

But  she  feared  to  be  dismissed  at  once,  and  she  was 
not  used  to  calling  for  help  in  her  perils.  So  she  said 
nothing. 

261 


LONG   EVER    AGO 

She  went  up  kicking  and  swirling.  She  was  out  of 
Krug's  reach,  but  more  than  ever  in  his  power.  He  gave 
her  one  or  two  sickening  lurches  to  emphasize  this  fact 
and  she  was  frightened  beyond  screaming.  But  she  was 
even  more  afraid  of  being  returned  to  her  old  life. 

In  time  she  learned  to  swim  in  the  air,  to  keep  her 
equilibrium,  and  to  take  a  superlative  joy  in  the  new 
element  she  had  gained.  So  Bruni  told  her  the  time  and 
the  train  for  the  morrow's  journey  and  left  her  to  put 
off  her  celestial  raiment  and  get  back  to  her  dingy  self. 

When  she  came  down  from  the  dressing-room  she  found 
Krug  waiting  for  her.  She  made  her  nails  ready  for  a 
cat-like  defense,  but,  to  her  stupefaction,  he  lifted  his  hat 
to  her!  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  received  this 
tribute  and  it  was  overwhelming.  And  he  said  in  his 
most  sugary  tones: 

"You  cert'n'y  slipped  one  over  on  me.  Me  nob  is 
buzzin'  yet.  But  I  like  a  girl's  got  some  fight  in  her. 
And  you're  light  as  a  fedder,  too.  Gee!  you're  a  pipe  to 
lift.  Dey's  a  lot  o'  tips  I  can  give  you  dat  '11  help  some. 
Supposin'  you  and  me  was  to  have  dinner  togedder.  You 
must  be  ready  for  de  eats  after  all  de  work  you  done." 

Sliver  was  prepared  to  dislike  Mr.  Krug,  but  before 
such  gallantry  who  would  not  relent?  And  how  tactful 
it  was  of  him  to  mention  food.  She  was  heroine  enough 
to  refuse  his  "Ah,  come  ahn,"  once,  twice,  thrice,  but 
that  was  her  limit. 

So  she  went  with  him  to  a  restaurant  a  little  less  clean 
and  a  little  more  expensive  than  the  dairy  lunches  that 
had  marked  her  highest  social  arrival  heretofore.  Mr. 
Krug,  as  host,  majestically  went  down  the  line:  oysters, 
soup,  steak,  fried  potatoes,  and  pie.  He  urged  Sliver  to 
join  him  in  a  pitcher  of  beer,  but  she  would  not  be  per 
suaded.  There  had  been  too  much  beer  in  her  en- 

262 


THE    BITTERNESS    OF    SWEETS 

virons.  She  had  carried  too  many  pails  of  it  up  too  many 
stairs. 

But  oysters — these  were  almost  her  first,  and  they  were 
as  large  as  small  hot- water  bags.  Each  one  of  them  was 
a  problem.  But  she  solved  them  all.  She  solved  the 
soup,  together  with  two  slices  of  bread  that  she  broke  up 
in  it,  following  Mr.  Krug's  example.  She  ate  the  steak 
with  the  eager  fangs  of  a  young  animal,  and  hurried  the 
potatoes  down  in  single  file.  Of  the  pie  she  left  not  a 
crumb,  and  she  drained  two  cups  of  coffee. 

Even  Mr.  Krug  admired  her  triumph.     He  said: 

"Girlie,  you're  the  goods  when  it  comes  to  the  knife- 
and-fork  dance.  Dey  won't  make  no  hash  out  of  what 
you  leave." 

She  winced  a  little  at  this  and  flashed  back: 

"If  you  don't  like  my  style  you  ain't  gotta  pay  for  it. 
I  got  the  price  of  the  check  right  here." 

Krug  was  startled.  "Gee!  but  you're  the  hair-trigger 
kid!  Why,  I  love  to  see  you  wallop  a  plate.  Dat  other 
broad  dat's  leavin*  de  show  used  to  turn  up  her  nose  at 
everything  I  bought  her." 

"Oh,"  said  Sliver,  cannily,  "you  think  you're  trainin' 
me  to  take  her  place  on  the  wire  and  off,  do  you?  Well, 
you  better  change  cars;  we  don't  use  them  kind  of  trans 
fers  on  this  line." 

She  said  it  with  such  an  ominous  glare  that  Krug  was 
thrown  into  a  panic.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  think 
that  he  knew  womankind.  But  Sliver  was  not  yet  a 
woman.  She  was  a  famished  child. 

What  she  had  learned  of  love  in  the  streets  and  in  her 
family  history  had  not  emphasized  its  attractions.  She 
was  not  ready  for  love,  and  still  had  a  child's  disgust  for 
its  symptoms.  Whatever  the  future  might  develop  her 
into,  Sliver  had  no  further  interests  now  than  food,  suc- 

263 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

cess,  and  sleep.  She  had  had  the  first,  to-morrow  prom 
ised  the  second,  and  she  was  desperately  ready  for  the 
third. 

She  shook  off  Krug's  further  hospitality  and  went  home 
alone.  Her  heavy  feet  could  hardly  lift  her  unusual 
weight  up  the  long  stairs.  Her  last  strength  went  in  the 
task  of  wresting  off  her  shoes  and  folding  up  her  pitiful 
finery.  Her  soul  was  asleep  before  her  lean  hands  had 
finished  drawing  the  quilt  about  her  thin  and  ropy  little 
throat. 

The  journey  to  New  Jersey  was  the  beginning  of  an 
era  of  travel.  New  Jersey,  in  the  eyes  of  Sliver,  had 
always  been  a  foreign  country.  She  gave  herself  a  last 
good  breakfast  in  New  York  that  she  might  have  pleasant 
memories  of  America. 

From  the  station  at  Paterson  she  and  the  other  swal 
lows  lugged  their  heavy  suit-cases  to  a  boarding-house 
that  was  accounted  the  worst  even  in  Paterson.  After 
an  hour  in  the  theater  to  test  the  tackle  and  rehearse  the 
music  cues,  the  swallows  flew  boarding-houseward  for  an 
early  luncheon. 

The  others,  who  had  known  better  days,  though  not 
always,  made  dismal  faces  at  the  food  served  by  Mrs. 
Ablowitz.  They  called  it  "somepum  fierce."  But  Sliver 
was  fiercer  still,  and  she  first  flattered  and  then  dismayed 
Mrs.  Ablowitz  by  her  voracity.  A  rate  for  the  week  had 
been  agreed  on,  and  Sliver  determined  to  eat  till  she  was 
enjoined. 

That  week  was  the  birth  of  a  new  Sliver.  She  had 
food,  food,  food — three  foods  a  day,  and  a  snack  of  supper 
at  a  fascinating  lunch-wagon  after  the  evening's  work  was 
over. 

And  such  work!  Such  a  thing  to  call  work — to  dress 
in  pink  tights  and  feathers  and  a  wig  of  dangling  curls, 

264 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

to  use  powder  freely,  set  a  rose  of  rouge  in  each  cheek, 
incarnadine  and  enlarge  the  wan  lips,  and  blacken  the 
eyelashes  desperately!  And  then  to  sing  songs  and  dance, 
and  finally  to  flash  into  the  air  on  unseen  wires,  to  beat 
the  wings  in  ecstasy,  to  curvet  and  caracole,  to  hover 
above  the  heads  of  the  admiring  people  and  know  the 
beatitude  of  birds!  And,  strangest  of  all,  to  be  paid  for 
this — to  be  paid  twelve  dollars  a  week  for  it,  with  feathers 
and  railroad  fares  thrown  in ! 

At  her  first  matine'e  Sliver  forgot  most  of  her  words, 
and  the  rest  stuck  in  her  parched  throat.  She  could 
not  keep  step  with  the  dancers,  and  when  she  was  hoisted 
into  the  air  she  lost  her  balance  and  hung  head  down, 
kicking  and  sprawling  till  she  was  lowered. 

This  convulsed  the  small  audience  so  completely  that 
the  house-manager  begged  Bruni  to  keep  it  in.  The  old 
man  was  insulted  at  the  suggestion.  His  birds  were  ar 
tistes,  not  clowns.  He  expended  so  much  temper  on  the 
manager  that  he  had  no  wrath  left  for  Sliver.  But  he 
explained  to  her  that  the  sacrilege  must  not  occur  again 
and  ordered  Krug  to  give  her  a  special  rehearsal.  On 
this  account  she  could  hardly  refuse  Krug's  invitation 
to  supper  after  the  show.  She  was  as  hungry  at  eleven- 
thirty  as  she  had  been  before  dinner,  and  as  Krug  watched 
her  his  admiration  was  tempered  with  anxiety. 

On  the  way  home  he  carelessly  slipped  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  and  withdrew  it  promptly  minus  four  or  five 
small  pieces  excavated  by  her  ready  nails.  He  was  so 
startled  that  he  apologized.  The  next  evening  he  was 
permitted  to  feed  her  only  on  condition  that  he  quit  what 
she  called  his  "damnonsense." 

This  was  the  basest  ingratitude  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
supper  series  ended.  Lacking  his  support,  she  paid  for 
her  own  suppers.  In  the  mornings  she  bought  herself 

265 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

beakers  of  ice-cream  soda,  nut  sundaes  with  maple  syrup 
spread  over,  and  boxes  of  "chorklut  pep'munts." 

At  the  end  of  the  week  she  found  that  her  wealth  was 
not  so  elastic  as  her  appetite.  She  had  no  money  to 
pay  the  small  bill  for  her  laundry  when  the  stage-door 
man  brought  it.  She  had  nothing  to  pawn  and  she  was 
forced  to  borrow  from  another  swallow  against  pay-day. 

She  did  not  dare  buy  herself  a  supper  that  night.  She 
smiled  invitingly  at  Krug,  but  he  was  nursing  a  grudge 
and  did  not  take  the  hint.  She  lay  awake  while  the 
mouse  gnawed  as  of  old. 

The  fourth  week  found  the  swallows  nested  in  Red 
Bank.  The  lonely  Krug,  watching  the  infuriatingly  elu 
sive  Sliver,  was  startled  to  realize  how  pretty  she  was. 
He  had  understood  the  secret  of  the  curves  in  her  nether 
members;  they  had  been  stitched  in,  with  results  that 
might  have  bewildered  an  anatomist.  But  those  pipe- 
stem  bare  arms  of  hers  had  grown  actually  round  and 
full.  Those  dangerous  elbow-spikes  were  blunter. 

His  experienced  arms  tested  her  weight  when  the  signal 
came  to  hoist.  Yes,  she  was  heavier.  And  so  was  his 
heart.  He  approached  her  again  with  a  supper  invita 
tion.  She  accepted  graciously  with  a  round-cheeked  smile 
that  made  him  gasp.  Her  appetite  was  undiminished. 

On  the  way  home  he  said: 

"Say,  girlie,  you're  not  so  skinny  as  you  was,  are  you?" 

"So  the  other  goils  was  tellin'  me,"  she  said.  "Yes- 
tiddy  I  hadda  let  out  me  skoit  at  the  waist,  and  to-night 
I  left  off  me  plumpers." 

"You're  sure  one  armful  now,"  he  said,  and  made  bold 
to  prove  it.  She  gave  him  her  elbow  in  the  solar  plexus, 
and  when  he  began  breathing  again  he  realized  that  she 
had  not  improved  so  much  as  he  thought. 

Sliver  grew  prettier  as  she  grew  plumper  and  Krug  be- 

266 


THE    BITTERNESS    OF   SWEETS 

gan  to  feel  an  awe  of  her,  as  if  a  little  tight-clenched  bud 
were  blooming  into  a  young  rose  before  him.  He  began 
to  plead  humbly  for  her  affection;  he  talked  of  the  joy 
of  marriage.  Two  of  the  swallows  were  married  and  one 
had  left  a  child  at  her  mother's.  But  Sliver  laughed  him 
to  scorn.  She  was  as  fleet  and  airy-minded  as  a  swallow 
when  the  mating  season  is  farthest  away. 

Krug  grew  more  lorn  as  she  grew  more  luscious  in  his 
sight.  But  he  grew  tiresome  to  her.  His  compliments 
bored  her.  She  was  getting  them  from  all  sides.  She 
was  overhearing  people  in  the  audience  refer  to  her  as 
"that  pretty  one  on  the  left."  She  knew  that  she  was 
growing  beautiful,  because  the  other  swallows  were  more 
and  more  unpleasant  to  her.  Life  was  one  long  festival; 
her  appetite  grew  almost  lyrical.  She  kept  candy  in  her 
make-up  box  and  in  her  bedroom. 

And  so  she  romped  across  the  weeks  without  a  thought 
of  trouble  in  her  world.  Then  one  evening  she  heard 
two  men  in  a  stage  box  discussing  the  swallows.  She 
heard  herself  referred  to  as  "the  fat  one  on  the  left." 
She  mistrusted  her  ears. 

She  gulped  her  supper  in  haste  and  hurried  to  her  room 
to  study  herself  in  the  mirror.  The  concave  of  her  cheeks 
was  convex  now.  Beneath  her  little  pointed  chin  she  had 
the  hint  of  a  second  one.  Her  throat  was  full,  her  shoul 
ders  soft  and  padded.  She  had  difficulty  in  unhooking 
her  dress.  Her  arms  were  roly-poly;  there  was  a  swaddle 
of  fat  at  her  hips;  her  thighs  were  arched  and  her  calves 
bulged. 

Sliver  felt  a  knife  of  terror  in  her  heart.  She  resolved 
that  she  needed  more  exercise.  After  breakfast  she  took 
a  long  walk.  She  tired  quickly  and  her  breath  was  gone 
so  soon  that  she  had  to  pause  for  an  ice-cream  soda. 
She  invested  a  penny  in  a  weighing-machine.  Her  ninety 

267 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

pounds  were  one  hundred  and  fifteen!  The  traditional 
limit  of  weight  for  a  swallow  was  one  hundred  pounds. 

That  night  she  noted  that  the  other  swallows  were 
kinder  to  her  than  for  a  week  past.  This  was  alarming. 
Krug  resumed  his  old  insolence  and  patronage.  This  was 
convincing. 

He  invited  her  to  supper,  and  somehow  she  dared  not 
refuse.  When  he  asked  her  what  she  wanted  he  said: 

"Go  easy  on  the  heavy  stuff,  girlie.  Take  it  from  me, 
it's  easier  putting  on  weight  than  pushin'  it  off." 

She  ate  heavily  to  prove  that  he  could  not  coerce  her 
with  his  advice.  As  they  walked  to  her  boarding-house 
his  arm  slid  round  her  waist  and  she  had  a  hard  fight  to 
tear  it  away. 

"Stop  it,"  she  gasped,  breathlessly.  "I  hate  it,  and 
I  hate  you." 

"That  goes  double,  then,  girlie,"  he  answered,  trucu 
lently.  "I  guess  I  won't  trouble  you  long." 

"You  mean  you're  goin'  to  quit  the  show?"  she  said, 
all  too  hopefully. 

"Me!  it  ain't  me!"  he  laughed.  "You  ain't  de  first 
swaller  dat's  been  crowded  out  because  she  weighed  in 
too  heavy.  I've  saw  more  'n  a  dozen  of  yous  livin'  skel 
etons  swell  out  into  fat  ladies  and  den  blow.  I  been 
doin'  overtime  h'istin'  you,  and  savin'  nuttin'  to  nobuddy. 
But  it  don't  get  me  nowhere,  and  I'm  goin'  to  lay  down. 
It's  me  duty  to  me  boss  to  wise  him  up  to  de  strain 
you're  puttin'  on  his  tackle.  O'  course,  if  you  was  pals 
wit'  me,  I  might  go  troo  wit*  it,  but — well,  sleep  on  it, 
kiddo,  and  gimme  your  answer  to-morra.  A  woid  to  de 
wise  is  officious." 

Sliver  slept  on  it  that  night,  but  she  slept  ill.  Her 
brain  was  a  paddock  of  nightmares;  one  of  her  recurrent 
torments  was  a  vision  of  herself  as  a  fat  woman  in  a 

268 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF    SWEETS 

museum,  a  billowy,  pillowy  freak.  She  woke  again  and 
again  in  cold  sweats  of  horror. 

She  fell  to  work  on  all  the  exercises  she  could  remember 
from  the  newspaper  accounts  of  how  to  get  thin.  She 
bent  stiff-kneed  and  touched  the  floor  with  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  till  she  grew  dizzy  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Then, 
being  there,  she  rolled  herself  along  the  carpet  like  a 
barrel  till  the  people  in  the  room  below  were  wakened 
and  alarmed  and  ran  up  to  knock  at  the  door  and  ask 
if  she  were  having  a  fight  or  a  fit. 

She  refused  her  breakfast  and  fled  from  the  house, 
where  the  aroma  of  waffles  seemed  to  have  claws  to 
clutch  at  her  and  hale  her  back.  She  walked  and  ran, 
sinking  down  to  rest  on  packing-cases  or  other  sidewalk 
obstructions.  She  walked  and  walked  till  her  feet  out- 
ached  her  heart. 

Her  pain  and  her  fatigue  were  almost  unendurable. 
But  quite  unendurable  was  the  thought  of  going  back 
to  the  life  she  had  left;  back  to  grime  and  tenements 
and  brawling  parents,  and  three  dollars  a  week  and 
somebody  else  to  spend  it. 

She  frightened  herself  away  from  bakers'  windows  by 
the  remembrance  of  her  past.  She  achieved  the  heroism 
of  a  lunchless  noon.  She  wore  through  the  matinee  with 
no  sustenance  but  the  juice  of  a  lemon,  and  the  very 
thought  of  it  tied  her  into  a  knot. 

After  the  matinee  she  did  not  go  back  to  the  boarding- 
house.  She  told  her  fellow-swallows  that  she  "had  a 
date  out."  Krug  heard  of  it  and  jealousy  tormented 
him  as  hunger  tormented  Sliver.  He  vowed  to  tempo 
rize  no  longer.  He  searched  for  her,  but  his  wander 
ings  did  not  come  across  hers,  and  he  found  no  chance 
to  speak  to  her  alone. 

When  she  got  back  to  the  stage  door  her  feet  were 

269 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

heavy,  but  her  head  was  light.  Outside  a  cigar-store, 
near  the  alley  leading  to  the  stage  door,  there  stood  a 
weighing-machine.  Sliver  did  not  know  that  these  whim 
sical  devices  vary  not  only  from  one  another,  but  from 
themselves  also.  All  she  knew  was  that  the  same  solemn 
dial  that  yesterday  registered  her  weight  as  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  pounds,  now,  after  a  night  and  day  of  fasting 
and  pilgrimage,  proclaimed  her  weight  at  one  hundred 
and  seventeen. 

She  crept  down  the  black  alley  of  despair,  and  her  knees 
were  hardly  able  to  hoist  her  to  her  dressing-room;  her 
fingers  hardly  managed  to  doff  her  street  clothes  and 
don  her  plumage.  She  toppled  down  the  stairs  just  in 
time  for  her  turn  and  she  was  so  pale  that  Krug  forbore 
to  trouble  her  as  he  snapped  the  hook  on  her  belt. 

The  curtain  rose  and  the  piano  roared  and  the  swal 
lows  began  to  sing  and  dance.  Sliver  strove  to  do  her 
part,  but  the  floor  writhed  and  the  walls  wiggled  and  the 
audience  eddied.  She  heard  the  other  swallows  upbraid 
ing  her.  She  felt  that  the  audience  was  la.ughing  at  her, 
suspecting  her  sobriety.  To  be  accused  of  that!  Her 
desperate  little  mind  fought  with  the  mutinous,  unpaid, 
and  unfed  troops  of  her  nerves  and  fought  in  vain. 

The  audience  was  openly  ridiculing  her,  and  a  few 
women  were  whooping  and  rocking  with  laughter.  Bruni 
was  charging  back  from  the  front  of  the  house,  when 
the  audience  suddenly  hushed  its  noise.  Sliver  collapsed; 
her  joints  gave  way  one  by  one  from  her  ankles  up,  and 
she  lay  outspread  on  the  stage,  a  pitiful,  broken-winged 
bird. 

The  other  swallows  stared,  then  moved  to  her  aid. 
But  just  at  that  moment  the  cue  arrived  for  their  flight. 
The  men  at  the  wires  had  seen  nothing  of  what  had  hap 
pened  and  they  bent  to  their  task.  The  advancing  swal- 

270 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

lows  felt  themselves  dragged  backward  irresistibly,  then 
up  they  went  into  the  air. 

And  Sliver  was  lifted  too.  Still  aswoon  and  all  limp, 
she  was  gathered  up  like  a  clay  figure  and  carried  high, 
hanging  doubled  downward  from  the  waist,  her  head 
against  her  knees  and  her  hands  flapping  against  her  feet. 

The  stage-manager  rang  the  curtain  down  just  as  Bruni 
reached  the  scene.  He  was  horrified  at  the  interruption 
to  his  sacred  rites,  but  his  heart  melted  at  the  sight  of 
Sliver.  Always  a  showman  first,  he  ordered  the  rest  of 
his  flock  to  stand  by  to  continue,  and,  taking  Sliver  in 
his  arms  as  she  was  lowered  to  the  stage,  unhooked  the 
wire  from  her  belt.  Her  weight  amazed  him  and  he 
staggered  under  it  to  the  wings,  groaning: 

" Per  Vamor  di  Dio!  my  svallow  is  a  goose!" 

He  turned  her  over  to  Krug,  who  rushed  to  his  assist 
ance;  then  he  made  haste  to  the  footlights  to  explain  to 
the  audience  that  the  svallow  was  all  right  to-morrow 
and  the  leddies  and  jontlamen  need  not  be  alarmett.  He 
backed  off  into  the  curtain  wire  and  bowed  himself  slowly 
through  a  narrow  crevice.  The  curtain  went  up  and  the 
Engagement  Extraordinary  went  on. 

Sliver  woke  to  see  Krug  staring  down  at  her  with  more 
tenderness  than  she  had  thought  him  capable  of.  She 
expected  no  consideration  at  all  from  Mr.  Bruni,  whose 
show  she  had  spoiled.  But  he  was  all  aflutter  and 
proffered  hor  a  flask  of  brandy. 

Sliver  pushed  it  away.  She  was  afraid  of  liquor  and 
she  dreaded  the  thought  of  its  effect  on  her  wits  after  her 
prolonged  starvation.  Bruni  did  not  urge  the  point,  but 
advised  her  to  go  home  as  soon  as  she  could  change  her 
clothes. 

She  made  haste  to  get  away  from  the  theater  before 
the  other  swallows  came  off  the  stage  to  bombard  her 

271 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

with  questions.  As  she  undressed  and  redressed,  her 
hunger  came  back  over  her  in  gusts  of  emotional  inten 
sity.  She  could  have  gnawed  the  soap.  The  rabbit's 
foot  in  her  make-up  box  tempted  her. 

She  darted  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  stage  door 
as  the  swallows  hopped  from  the  stage.  Krug  caught 
up  with  her  and  took  her  well-filled  sleeve.  He  sus 
pected  the  cause  of  her  distress;  his  first  word  was  an 
irresistible  plea: 

"Looky  year,  kiddo,  what  you  need  ain't  no  medicine 
or  no  booze.  Plain  food  and  lots  of  it  is  what  you  want. 
Am  I  hep?" 

"Yep,"  she  sighed.  And  he  steered  her  into  a  restau 
rant  over  whose  door  hung  one  electric  word,  a  gleaming 
imperative  "EAT." 

And  she  ate.  Between  the  exorbitant  demands  of  her 
irate  stomach  and  the  tactful  insinuations  of  her  extrava 
gant  suitor  her  wisdom  had  the  minority  vote. 

Krug  did  not  seek  to  lure  Sliver  with  cocktails  or 
liqueurs.  He  did  not  hint  at  that  ultimate  East  Side 
prodigality  known  as  "opening  wine."  He  did  not  offer 
jewels  or  fine  clothes  or  a  life  of  ease. 

He  offered  her  a  life  of  work  and  plenty  of  food.  He 
plied  her  with  subtle  soup,  with  fat  pork  chops  and  fried 
potatoes,  with  more  of  the  same,  with  glasses  of  half  and 
half  (half  milk  and  half  cream),  with  jellies  and  with 
comfits,  and  finally  for  a  climax  he  set  before  her  that 
last  word  in  fatteners,  apple  pie  with  ice-cream  on  it. 

And  she  fell  for  it.  He  murmured  to  her  gallantly 
that  he  didn't  mind  how  heavy  she  got.  He'd  put  on 
a  double  wire  if  necessary  and  a  block  and  tackle  big 
enough  to  hoist  a  safe.  If  on'y  she'd  treat  him  white, 
he'd  go  into  de  bakery  business. 

But  Sliver  wanted  to  be  a  swallow.  A  little  later  she 

272 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

could  cut  down  her  commissary,  but  food  was  as  much 
of  a  heavenly  novelty  to  her  starved  body  as  the  art  life 
was  to  her  starved  soul.  She  promised  to  be  good  to 
Krug  if  he  would  be  good  to  her. 

There  was  a  moon  leering  down  at  them  as  they  left 
the  restaurant;  a  well-fed  moon  like  a  meringue  in  the 
sky.  A  sense  of  luxurious  well-being  filled  Sliver's  heart 
and  she  thought  kindly  even  of  Krug — until  they  reached 
a  heavily  timbered  street,  where  the  walk  led  through  a 
subway  of  gloom.  And  there  he  took  his  bargain  into 
his  arms  and  crushed  her  against  him  with  gorilla  vio 
lence,  and  pressed  back  her  head  and  took  the  kiss  she 
had  promised  him.  And  more  than  one,  with  increasing 
ferocity. 

Until  she  smothered  and  fought  him  and  wrenched 
away  and  took  four  strips  of  skin  from  his  nose  with  her 
finger-nails  and  beat  him  on  the  mouth  till  it  bled. 

As  she  ran  she  heard  him  sputtering  and  calling  into 
the  dark:  "I'll  get  you  for  this!  You'll  see!  I'll 
get  you!" 

Sliver  did  not  stop  running  till  she  reached  her  boarding- 
house  and  locked  herself  up  in  her  room.  There  she 
broke  down  in  a  storm  of  tears. 

She  felt  no  remorse  for  her  broken  pledge;  it  was  good 
to  dupe  the  devil;  there  could  be  no  perjury  with  the 
prince  of  evil.  She  vowed  that  she  would  not  belong  to 
Krug  though  his  master  himself  came  down  the  chimney 
breathing  fire.  Rather  than  that,  she  would  leave  the 
flock.  Rather  than  belong  to  a  man  whose  touch  she 
hated  she  would  go  back  to  the  freedom  of  her  old  life. 
Whatever  its  faults,  it  left  her  free  at  least.  Plainly  she 
was  not  meant  to  be  a  swallow.  The  others  ate  and  ate 
and  ate  and  grew  only  the  thinner  for  it.  But  if  she 
touched  so  much  as  a  pudding  it  went  straight  to  her 

273 


LONG   EVER  AGO 

cheeks.  Heaven  evidently  meant  her  to  be  fat  and  she 
would  yield  to  Heaven. 

In  this  grim  resolve  she  fell  asleep  and  dreamed  herself 
a  hungry  cash-girl  again. 

When  she  woke  up  the  cash-girl  fled,  but  the  hunger 
remained.  She  was  the  first  one  in  the  dining-room  and 
she  ate  as  if  she  were  condemned  to  execution  and  this 
her  final  breakfast  upon  earth. 

She  left  the  house  for  exercise  and  passed  a  billboard 
where  the  flight  of  Bruni's  birds  was  lithographed  with 
more  imagination  than  skill.  But  this  critic  was  no  better 
than  the  artist  and  Sliver  felt  a  great  sorrow  in  her  heart 
at  giving  up  her  wings. 

Grief  depressed  her  so  utterly  that  she  sought  surcease 
in  the  only  stimulant  that  gave  her  respite.  She  entered 
a  bakery  and  bought  lavishly.  She  came  forth  carrying 
a  large  paper  sack  bulging  with  kickshaws. 

She  hurried  home  like  a  robber  with  a  bag  of  swag. 
As  she  ran  up  the  steps  of  the  boarding-house  and  darted 
through  the  door  she  collided  with  Mr.  Bruni.  At  the 
sight  of  him  she  was  overcome  with  guilt  and  shame  and 
remorse.  She  flung  herself  into  his  arms  and  embraced 
as  much  of  him  as  she  could  encompass. 

Amazed  by  the  onslaught  and  the  outburst,  he  led  her 
into  the  empty  parlor,  settled  her  in  a  chair,  sat  down  by 
her,  and  asked: 

"Leetla  keed,  you  are  seeck?  You  have  bad  news  from 
home?  Huh?" 

"It's  meself  I've  bad  news  from,"  Sliver  whimpered, 
and  with  that  beginning  told  him  all;  poured  out  the 
little  history  of  her  saccharine  past ;  showed  how  the  bale 
ful  habit  of  food  had  fastened  its  tentacles  upon  her,  till 
now  she  was  lost  beyond  redemption.  She  confessed  that 
the  cause  of  her  swoon  was  a  useless  effort  to  starve  her- 

274 


THE    BITTERNESS    OF    SWEETS 

self  into  shape.  But  she  said  never  a  word  of  Krug,  his 
influence,  her  compact  with  him  or  his  threat  against  her. 
She  turned  in  a  soppy  resignation  punctured  with  sobs. 

Poor,  fat,  old  Bruni,  who  had  a  smile  for  almost  every 
thing,  did  not  smile  at  this  tragedy;  he  did  not  make 
fun  of  Sliver  or  minimize  her  torment.  He  had  gone 
through  the  same  conflict,  and  lost.  There  was  no  ex 
cuse  she  could  have  given  that  could  have  made  so 
straight  for  his  heart.  He  took  Sliver's  dimpled  hand  into 
the  cushions  of  his  and  spoke  with  as  much  sincerity  as  if 
he  were  consoling  and  counseling  a  repentant  Magdalene. 

"Leetla  keed,  you  have  right  to  cry,  for  now  your  life 
commence-a  to  hoort.  You  are  goeen  each  day  to  make-a 
de  beeg  fight.  When  I  am  yong  like  you,  I  am  slim 
and  gracefool  like-a  de  greyhound  dog.  I  am  de  fines' 
dancer  in  all  Eetaly.  I  do  not  say  it.  I  know  it.  Avery- 
body  know  it.  Ask  anybody,  'Who  is  fines'  dancer  in 
Eetaly?'  He  say,  'Carlo  Bruni.'  So!  I  am  reech  and 
proud  and  I  begin  to  eat.  I  drink  not  moch — a  leetla 
Chianti,  maybe;  but  I  eat,  and  eateen  kills  more  people 
as  drinkeen.  I  dance,  but  I  puff.  I  say,  'I  am  not  well. 
I  most  eat  more/  I  eat.  I  grow  soft.  I  grow  fat.  I 
say,  'To-morra  I  begeen  to  stop  to  eat  so  moch/  But 
what  a  man  will  not  do  to-day  he  cannot  do  to-morra. 
Bineby,  you  ask  anybody, '  Who  is  fines'  dancer  in  Eetaly?' 
He  say,  'Carlo  Bruni  was.'  Bineby  I  stop  to  eat.  It 
is  too  late.  I  get  fat  jost  de  same.  And  bineby  Mr. 
Bruni  stop  to  dance.  He  manage  other  people  to  dadce. 
Now  I  do  not  eat  moch,  but  I  do  not  dance  at  all. 

"And  now  you,  you  poor  leetla  keed,  now  your  time 
comes.  If  you  dawn't  stop  now,  to-day,  and  never  begeen 
again,  you  become  fat  like  me,  old  Bruni.  You  will  not 
be  happy.  You  will  not  be  pretty.  You  will  be  fat  old 
lady  before  you  are  yong  woman. 

19  275 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"If  you  geeve  up  to  eat,  you  can  become  great  arteeste. 
At  feerst  you  are  not  pretty,  you  have  no  grace.  I  am 
sorry  I  take  you  for  a  Bruni  Svallow!  But  you  learn 
and  bineby  I  say,  'I  choose  good  when  I  choose  dat  gerl.' 
And  bineby,  if  you  take  care  of  yourself,  I  make  a  great 
dancer  of  you,  you  make  beeg  money — not  twelve  dollars 
a  week,  but  twelve  hundred  dollars  a  week. 

"To  be  an  arteeste  is  better  as  to  eat  too  moch,  eh? 
And  to  dance  is  greatest  art  of  all — musica,  dramma, 
scultura,  poesia — all  in  one.  If  you  eat  and  grown  to  be 
fat  you  shall  be  also  unhappy  jost  de  same.  If  you  are 
arteeste  you  shall  be  unhappy,  you  shall  soffer,  but  you 
shall  be  arteeste.  You  are  not  goeen  to  love  your  dinner 
more  as  your  art,  huh?  No!  You  are  goeen  to  be  brave 
leetla  keed,  and  bineby  leetla  keed  is  great  arteeste, 
huh?" 

She  nodded  her  head  so  violently  that  she  shook  tears 
from  her  lashes  to  the  fat  hand  he  laid  on  her  fat  cheek. 
And  so  he  left  her,  put  on  his  perfidious  fur  overcoat, 
twisted  his  wicked  mustaches,  and  went  his  way. 

Sliver  took  the  bag  of  cream-puffs  and  eclairs  and 
gingerbread  into  the  back  yard  and  threw  it  into  the 
ash-barrel.  It  was  like  tearing  her  heart  out  and  flinging 
it  away. 

On  her  way  to  the  theater  she  remembered  Krug's 
threat,  and  it  frightened  her.  Then  she  felt  reassured 
because  she  had  forestalled  him  by  confessing  the  truth 
to  her  adored  Bruni.  She  felt  more  comforted  when  she 
saw  Krug  smile  as  she  passed  him  in  the  wings. 

It  was  so  dark  that  she  saw  only  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  and  his  teeth.  She  did  not  see  the  swollen  lip  nor 
the  four  lines  across  the  bridge  of  his  nose.  These  had 
taken  a  deal  of  explaining  to  the  rest  of  the  crew.  They 
had  laughed  at  his  contradicting  stories.  But  they  had 

276 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

not  seen  him  as  he  set  a  little  file  to  gnawing  at  the  wire 
that  lifted  Sliver  into  the  air.  Half  through  he  filed  it, 
where  it  would  rub  across  the  pulley.  And  then  he 
waited  his  time. 

Sliver  put  on  her  swallow-clothes  again  with  a  joy  as 
of  coming  home.  The  buttons  were  tight  and  the  hooks 
pulled  fiercely  at  the  eyes,  but  she  felt  sure  that  she  could 
gradually  starve  off  enough  surplus  to  make  her  worthy  of 
her  glorious  career.  Even  Krug  was  cowed  and  all  was  well. 

She  danced  and  sang  like  a  forgiven  prodigal,  and  when 
the  cue  came  to  soar  aloft  she  pressed  sorrow  back  be 
neath  her  with  wings  as  joyous  as  a  skylark's.  Even 
the  other  swallows  felt  the  lilt  of  her  ecstasy. 

And  then,  at  the  height  of  her  climb,  she  felt  a  queer 
little  jolt  in  the  wire,  a  tiny  slipping,  and  then — she  was 
no  longer  upheld,  no  longer  a  bird,  just  a  helpless  body, 
falling,  falling — 

The  audience  caught  a  scream  of  terror,  a  vision  of 
tumbling  feathers,  a  thud,  a  motionless  heap,  a  panic 
among  the  swallows  still  in  the  air,  a  panic  in  the  very 
curtain  that  ran  down  its  wires  with  a  shriek,  a  hubbub 
back  of  the  canvas,  a  pale  man  who  stepped  forward  to 
say,  "Is  there  a  doctor  in  the  house?" 

One  man  rose  in  his  place  and,  edging  through  the  crowd, 
was  motioned  round  behind  a  stage  box. 

Then  the  piano  began  to  clatter,  the  curtain  went  up, 
and  a  comedian  in  green  whiskers  and  a  comedian  who 
wore  his  hat  down  over  his  ears  and  said,  "Oi!  Oi!" 
dashed  out  and  began  a  duel  of  wits. 

Bruni's  fat  heart  had  almost  stopped  in  his  fat  breast 
when  he  saw  his  swallow  drop  from  the  sky.  He  reached 
the  stage  in  an  ague  of  terror.  He  found  Sliver  once 
more  unconscious  and  bruised,  but  her  heart  still  beat 
under  his  trembling  hand. 

277 


LONG   EVER  AGO 

The  stage-manager,  furious  at  the  second  mishap,  was 
ordering  the  swallows  "to  get  back  in  two,"  howling  into 
the  flies  to  send  the  front  drop  down,  and  shouting  in  the 
wings  for  the  next  team  that  played  "in  one"  to  jump  in. 
It  was  not  their  turn,  but  at  all  costs  the  audience  must 
be  kept  at  ease. 

Bruni  never  dreamed  of  questioning  this  generalship. 
He  dragged  Sliver  up-stage  as  the  drop  flapped  into  place. 
When  the  doctor  arrived  they  talked  in  whispers,  while 
the  comedians  on  the  other  side  worked  like  Trojans  to 
coerce  the  audience  into  laughter  and  forgetfulness. 

The  doctor  hoped  that  no  bones  were  fractured.  "She's 
pretty  well  padded,"  he  said.  Her  flesh  was  at  once  the 
cause  of  her  disaster  and  its  remedy.  A  closer  search 
showed  that  one  of  her  arms  was  snapped,  and  the  ambu 
lance  was  called. 

Krug  heard  the  gong  of  the  hospital  wagon;  he  saw 
the  still  form  carried  forth  feet  first.  He  felt  himself  a 
murderer.  When  Bruni  came  back  to  demand  the  cause 
of  the  accident  he  could  not  enact  the  jaunty  scene  he 
had  rehearsed  for  himself.  He  gulped  and  choked  and 
mumbled  the  words: 

"I  knew  it  was  comin'.  I  been  warnin'  her  she  was 
eatin'  too  much.  She's  'way  over  de  limit,  and — " 

"You  knew  eet  comes,"  stormed  Bruni.  "Den  w'y  do 
you  not  tell  me — huh?" 

"How  do  I  know  de  wire  wouldn't  hold?" 

"De  wire  would  hold  two  of  her  unless —  Give-a  me 
de  wire." 

Bruni  did  not  wait  to  have  it  brought.  He  sought  it 
himself  and  examined  the  broken  edges.  As  he  dragged 
them  into  the  glow  of  a  brilliant  box-light  he  glanced  up 
at  Krug,  and  Krug  cleared  his  throat  and  shifted  to  the 
other  foot.  Bruni  studied  the  wire  keenly;  the  polished 

278 


THE    BITTERNESS   OF   SWEETS 

bevel  the  file  had  made  was  as  distinct  in  one  half  of  the 
wire  as  the  ragged  tear  in  the  other. 

Bruni  thought  hard  a  long  moment.  Then  he  called  to 
one  of  his  other  assistants : 

"Giorgio,  run  get  me  a  police-a-man,  queeck!" 

Krug  beat  Giorgio  to  the  door.     He  never  came  back. 

Bruni  thought  that  this  was  best.  It  saved  the  swal 
lows  a  scandal  and  Bruni  eighteen  dollars  of  unpaid  salary. 

When  Sliver  came  back  from  the  place  where  she  had 
gone  she  was  in  a  white  hotel  of  many  beds  in  one  room — 
a  hotel  filled  with  the  guests  of  pain. 

She  suffered  agonies  at  the  surgeon's  hands,  but  her 
soul  had  anguishes  all  its  own.  She  was  afraid  to  see 
old  Bruni,  but  when  he  came  he  was  so  overjoyed  at 
his  diplomacy,  his  financial  coup,  and  the  safety  of  his 
new  daughter  in  art,  that  he  had  only  words  of  comfort. 

She  was  so  weak  that  her  secret  feud  with  Krug  escaped 
her  close  little  heart. 

"Krug  said  he'd  get  me — and  he  did.  Not  the  way 
he  wanted  me  at  foist.  But  he  got  me  good  and  plenty. 
It  was  me  own  fault,  though,  for  toinin'  meself  into  a 
machinery-buster. ' ' 

"Dawn't  you  believe  you  boosta  da  machine  of  Bruni. 
Krug  is  de  machinery-booster.  He  is  a — a  traduttore, 
but  he  make  no  more  de  trooble  for  you,  leetla  keed." 

Sliver  was  overjoyed  to  have  this  remorse  removed. 
But  she  had  others.  "All  the  same,  I  busted  your  show, 
and  I  busted  me  arm,  and  you'll  never  wanta  see  me 
again." 

Bruni  shook  his  black  curls  and  smiled.  "Carlo  Bruni 
is  notta  de  man  for  leave  a  svallow  veet  a  brokena  ving. 
Ve  play  five  svallows  till  you  come  back." 

Sliver  squeezed  his  fat  hand  in  one  of  hers  and  chuckled. 
"I  was  in  another  horsepital  once.  They  don't  feed  you 

279 


LONG   EVER  AGO 

very  good  in  horsepitals.  When  I  get  outa  here  I'll  be 
a  Sliver  for  sure.  And  I'll  keep  meself  so  slim  they'll 
have  to  use  opery-glasses  to  see  me.  From  now  on  I'm 
strong  for  you  and  me  art." 

He  took  her  at  her  word.  And  when  she  was  well  she 
kept  it,  with  the  lofty  self-denial  of  a  priestess  at  an  altar. 

Now  and  then  on  her  way  to  and  from  the  theater  the 
Tempter  calls  her  eyes  to  the  windows  of  candy-shops, 
or  the  heaped-up  treasures  of  the  confectioner's;  or  a  land 
lady  in  his  employ  urges  her  to  try  her  pie.  But  thus 
far  she  has  fought  back  Chef  Lucifer  so  well  that  she  is 
almost  again  the  Sliver  she  was  when  Bruni,  who  is  so 
proud  of  her  now,  found  her  weeping  before  a  pastry- 
shop  because  she  could  not  buy. 

Sometimes  still  the  struggle  with  her  besetting  vice  of 
luxury  is  so  fierce  that  she  pauses  over  against  a  baker's 
window  to  defy  the  demon  and  prove  her  strength.  And 
the  battle  brings  tears  to  her  eyes  again  because  she 
could  buy  and  must  not. 

Myriads  of  women  have  wept  seas  of  tears  because  life 
is  so  filled  with  bitterness.  Sliver  is  weeping  a  little  pri 
vate  lake  of  her  own  because  it  is  so  full  of  sweets. 


X 

IMMORTAL  YOUTH 

OLIPSHOD  and  sloven,  lugging  a  pail  of  suds  and 
^  trailing  a  listless  mop,  the  scrubwoman  dragged  her 
dawdling  feet  up  from  the  basement  into  the  main  hall 
of  the  art-gallery.  Here  the  masterpieces  of  sculpture 
stood  clustered  like  an  enchanted  forest  of  marble  and 
marvelous  trees.  But  the  matter-of-fact  attendant  in 
uniform  had  nothing  more  poetic  to  say  than: 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Flannery?" 

She  nodded  as  if  her  identity  were  as  unimportant  to 
the  world  as  it  was  to  her.  The  man  jerked  a  thumb 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Go  up  them  stairs  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  and  toin 
to  the  right  till  you  come  to  the  noo  gallery.  Ask  for  Mr. 
Kelton.  He's  waitin'  for  you." 

She  nodded  drearily,  as  if  Mr.  Kelton  were  as  unim 
portant  as  everything  else,  and  wandered  on.  She  wasted 
no  glance  at  the  marble  or  plaster  classics.  But  they, 
in  their  petrified  moods,  seemed  to  regard  her  with  studious 
interest. 

Niobe  and  her  daughters  checked  their  grief,  and  Lao- 
coon  and  his  sons  paused  among  the  writhing  serpents 
till  she  and  her  indifference  should  be  out  of  sight  of  their 
anguish.  The  Apollo  Belvedere  alone  attitudinized,  even 
for  her,  as  if  hoping  that  she  would  share  his  approval 
of  himself.  The  horned  Moses  gathered  his  beard  aside, 

281 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

and  the  Day  and  Night  of  Michelangelo  seemed  to  raise 
themselves  heavily  in  protest  at  the  intrusion  of  such  a 
workaday  character  in  their  mighty  counsels.  Cleopatra, 
with  asp  on  bosom,  glowered  at  her.  The  Venus  of  Medici 
simpered,  caressing  her  own  milky  flesh;  the  Melos  alone 
ignored  her,  busied  with  ambrosial  thoughts.  The  Marble 
Faun  mused  over  her  with  his  eternal  smothered  chuckle; 
and  all  the  snowy  populace  seemed  to  say:  "How  did 
she  get  into  Olympus?  What  can  she  know  of  passion 
or  romance,  of  tragedy  or  idyl — that  sloppy  old  scrub 
woman?" 

The  draped  statues  poised  their  eloquent  wrinkles  in 
amazement  at  the  remarkable  ugliness  of  the  chaos  that 
served  Mrs.  Flannery  for  costume.  The  elaborately  coiffed 
goddesses  seemed  to  stand  astonished  at  Mrs.  Flannery 's 
hair,  with  its  sparse  and  tightly  drawn  skein  yanked  back 
to  a  small  knob,  resembling  a  crab-apple  with  a  skewer 
in  it.  These  stone  people  could  hardly  have  known  that 
the  one  lock  brushed  low  over  Mrs.  Flannery's  left  fore 
head  was  meant  to  conceal  a  scar  which  the  late  Mr. 
Flannery  had  raised  there  as  his  chief  claim  on  her  memory. 

Mrs.  Flannery  moved  on  her  way  like  realism  snub 
bing  romance.  If  she  had  had  any  thought  of  the  statuary 
at  all,  it  might  have  been,  "Better  a  live  scrubwoman  than 
a  dead  goddess." 

But  she  was  not  thinking  of  gods  or  goddesses,  Mrs. 
Flannery.  She  was  thinking  of  how  heavy  her  pail  was; 
how  tired  the  plaited  muscles  of  her  broad  back  were; 
how  the  rusty  hinges  of  her  knees  would  grate  when  she 
had  to  kneel  at  her  orisons  to  the  demigod  of  cleanliness. 

The  heroic  stairway  she  clambered  had  no  interest  for 
her,  except  its  length.  Once  it  was  climbed  and  her  breath 
regained,  she  turned  to  the  right  and  trailed  her  swish 
ing  mop  through  sun-flooded  galleries  of  paintings.  But 

282 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

her  face  stayed  empty  of  expression  until  she  reached  the 
new  room  in  the  new  wing.  Here  the  canvases,  bronzes, 
all  the  works  of  art,  were  hidden  under  sheets  of  cheese 
cloth  and  tarpaulin.  The  ceiling,  with  its  arabesques 
and  its  frieze,  was  trowel-fresh  or  mold-damp,  but  the 
floor  was  a  litter  of  plaster-spatter,  lath-splinter,  and  the 
general  debris  of  decoration. 

Mrs.  Flannery  opened  her  eyes  here.  Here  was  her 
business  and  her  demesne.  She  was  important  to  this 
room  and  it  to  her. 

She  found  a  man  loafing  about,  waiting  for  her  to  keep 
the  tryst. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Kelton?"  she  asked. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Flannery?"  he  answered. 

"Looks  like  it's  the  both  of  us,"  she  said,  with  an  al 
most  smile  that  was  remarkably  pleasant  for  so  dull  a 
face.  With  awakened  professional  pride  she  brushed  the 
vagrant  lock  back  over  Michael  Flannery  his  mark  and 
surveyed  her  territory. 

"The  plashterers  didn't  do  a  t'ing  to  this  floor,  did 
they?"  she  said.  "They  on'y  made  a  pig-pin  out  of  it, 
that's  all." 

"That's  all,"  echoed  Mr.  Kelton.  "It  will  look  better 
when  you  get  through  with  it.  First  you  must  clean  up 
this  mess  on  the  floor;  then  swab  everything  with  a  damp 
cloth;  then  you  can  take  the  coverings  off  the  statues 
and  pictures.  And  for  Heaven's  sake  be  careful!  Don't 
stick  that  mop  of  yours  through  any  of  the  Old  Masters, 
and  don't  knock  any  fingers  or  toes  or  noses  off  the  stat 
uary.  It  was  probably  one  of  you  women  who  robbed 
the  Medici  of  her  fingers  and  the  Hermes  of  his  right  arm." 

Mrs.  Flannery's  pride  was  touched.  She  bristled  pro 
fessionally.  "What  do  ye  t'ink  I  am,  a  hypopottimoose? 
Sure  and  this  ain't  the  first  airt-gallery  I've  set  foot  in. 

283 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

Wasn't  I  an  old  hand  in  stoodios  before  you  was  out  of 
short  pants?" 

"Was  you — were  you?"  said  Mr.  Kelton,  absently,  as 
he  peered  under  one  of  the  cloths  at  a  hidden  Ter  Borch. 

"Sure  was  I,"  said  Mrs.  Flannery,  and  began  to  get 
down  on  all-fours  with  the  circumstance  of  a  kneeling 
camel. 

When  this  descent  was  negotiated,  she  looked  up  as  a 
quadruped  and  demanded : 

"Usedn't  I  to  be  a  model  in  me  young  days?" 

"Used  you?"  came  from  the  muffled  curator. 

"That  I  used.  In  thim  days  I  had  a  shape,  too.  They 
was  artists,  and  good  ones  at  that,  who  said  me  figger 
was  divine.  They  said  it  would  drive  you  crazy." 

Kelton  peered  out  at  her  and  dared  not  answer: 

"It  does  still,  Mrs.  Flannery." 

Mrs.  Flannery  set  to  scraping  the  dirt  in  heaps  and 
began  to  think  aloud : 

"  Yis,  sor,  in  thim  days  me  shape  was  in  great  demand. 
I  was  almost  iv'rything  beautiful  and  glorious.  Wan 
week  I  was  a  nymp',  the  nextjweek  I  was  a  sylp' — or 
whativer  the  divil  it  was,  I  dunno.  Annyhow,  it  was  wan 
of  thim  ladies  that  don't  wear  anny" — she  looked  about 
cautiously,  then  lowered  her  voice  to  a  confidence — 
"Whisper! — ladies  that  don't  wear  anny  clothes  to  brag 
about,  but  is  great  on  grace — disgrace,  I'd  call  it  nowa 
days.  But  in  thim  days — oh,  the  Lord  love  ye ! — I  usedn't 
to  think  anny  more  of  posin'  than  I  do  now  of  rollin' 
up  me  sleeves.  Some  days  I  was  a  society  lady,  and 
then  a  queen,  and  what  not.  Why,  I  was  a  Gibson  girrul 
before  this  Gibson  felly  would  lave  go  of  his  bottle." 

"You  don't  tell  me?"  came  from  somewhere  under 
cover. 

"Sure,  it's  me  that's  tellin'  ye.  Wanst  they  was  a  pome 

284 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

wrote  about  me.  Honesttogawd !  Let's  see  how  it  wint." 
She  sat  up  on  her  haunches  awkwardly  as  a  Newfound 
land  dog.  "This  is  the  way  of  it,  as  I  was  after  tryin' 
to  remimber  it  the  other  day. 

"Oh,  laughter-levin'  Venus  of  the — the  mien  Hibernian, 
I  toast  your  beauty  in  a  beaker  of  Fa-Falernian. 

"Whatever  it  is,  'Falernian,'  I  dunno;  only  I  think  it 
wasn't  ice-cream  sody. 

"I  pour  loibation  to  the  passion  of  yer  wishtful  face, 
The  curve  of  iwery  ivory  limb 
Hairmonious  in  a  heavenly  hymn 
To  Grecian  dratnes  of  beauty,  Grecian  gods  of  grace. 

"That's  the  way  it  began;  the  rest  of  it  I  fergit. 
'Iwery  ivory  limb!'  Can  you  see  me  now,  wit'  me  legs 
tied  into  bow-knots  from  rheumatics?  Oh,  wirra,  wirra!" 

She  fell  back  on  all-fours  and  went  on  with  her  work, 
chattering  too  garrulously  to  notice  that  her  audience  had 
quietly  vanished. 

"Wanst  I  was  after  recitin'  it  to  me  old  man.  And 
Flannery  says,  'Aw,  shut  up  and  fergit  it.'  A  fine  soul 
for  poetry  had  Flannery — the  dirty  loafer,  sleepin'  off  his 
drunks  when  he  wasn't  out  collectin'  'em!  Oh,  it's  sorra 
the  day  I  ever  took  up  wit*  the  likes  of  him,  me  that 
wanst  had  artists  and  handsome  young  gintlemen  writin' 
pomes  to  me." 

She  sat  up  again  in  her  Newfoundland  posture.  See 
ing  that  she  was  alone,  she  laughed  with  the  gift  of  self- 
derision  that  had  saved  her  from  despair  all  her  life;  then 
she  went  back  to  polishing  the  floor,  eventually  drifting 
into  snatches  of  an  old  song  of  ribald  tendencies: 

"Oh,  the  priest  of  the  parish  in  his  caravan 
Kim  over  the  mountains  to  marry  Susanne. 

285 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

Oh,  the  priest  of  the  parish  in  his  caravan 
Kim  over  the  mountains  to  marry  Susanne. 

"There  was  McDermott  and  Patrick  and  a  couple  oj  score  more, 
Wit'  their  long  spades  and  pitchforks  to  ride  the  bride  home. 
And  you're  welkim  all,  heartily  welkim, 
Gramichree  welkim,  ivvery  wan. 

"Whin  the  bride  she  was  dressed  she  was  comely  and  fair, 
And  as  nate  round  the  waisht  as  a  two-year-old  mare; 
Her  body  was  dressed  wit'  blue  trimmin's  around, 
And  her  hat  was  a  castor  that  cost  her  a  crown. 

And  you're  welkim  all,  heartily  welkim, 

Gramichree  welkim,  ivvery  wan." 

And  so  she  sang  and  swept,  scrubbed  and  clattered, 
till  the  litter  was  removed.  Then  she  began  on  the  floor, 
working  from  the  outside  in  smaller  and  smaller  circles. 

After  a  time  Kelton  returned  with  a  man  whose  wealth 
was  as  evident  as  his  years.  His  prosperity  was  in  such 
contrast  with  the  curator's  careless  attire  that  he  looked 
almost  dapper. 

"This  is  the  room,  Mr.  Harbeson,  or  rather  it  will  be," 
said  Kelton,  "when  the  woman  here  gets  through  with  it." 

Kelton's  manner  was  markedly  deferential.  Mr.  Har 
beson  accepted  this  as  a  matter  of  course  and  custom. 
He  glanced  about  with  an  interest  hardly  more  than  polite. 

Kelton  went  on:  "Under  that  canvas  is  a  handsome 
onyx  tablet  explaining  that  this  is  the  Catherine  Weldon 
Harbeson  memorial  gallery." 

"Indeed?"  was  Harbeson 's  entire  comment. 

After  a  somewhat  irksome  silence  Kelton  ventured: 

"It  was  a  beautiful  idea  for  a  memorial  to  your  wife,  sir." 

Harbeson  smiled  drearily.  "I  wonder  if  poor  Cath 
erine  would  think  so.  She  wasn't  much  on  art,  Cath 
erine.  Hardly  thought  it  proper,  I'm  afraid." 

286 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

"You  don't  say!"  Kelton  exclaimed,  with  a  soft  pedal 
on  his  amazement.  "I'm  sure  she  would  like  this  gallery, 
though.  It  will  be  the  gem  of  the  whole  museum." 

"Not  really!" 

"Indeed  it  will,  sir.  And  do  you  know  I  think  it  is 
a  pity  that  more  rich  men  don't  follow  your  example  and 
spend  their  money  in  this  way.  They  have  millions  for 
endowing  colleges,  scientific  schools,  manual-training 
schools,  athletic  fields,  hospitals,  charities,  but  they  over 
look  the  religion  of  the  beautiful." 

Harbeson  turned  a  gray  and  quizzical  eye  on  the 
enthusiast. 

"The  beautiful?— -Mr.  Kelton!  The  religion  of  the 
beautiful? — in  America?  Really,  Kelton,  my  boy,  you 
get  strange  ideas  in  this  quiet  old  gallery.  You  might 
as  well  be  marooned." 

"  To  be  marooned  in  such  a  Paradise — that's  not  so  bad." 

"Paradise,  eh?    You  actually  enjoy  living  here?" 

"It  is  the  world  to  me,  sir — a  dead  world,  perhaps, 
but  a  beautiful  one.  Of  course,  you  think  I'm  crazy." 

Harbeson's  eyes  seemed  to  warm  a  trifle.  "Yes,  I  sup 
pose  you  are."  Then  he  added,  "I  used  to  be  crazy,  too." 
Kelton  turned  a  surprised  look  on  him  as  he  went  on: 
"Mad  as  a  hatter,  or,  worse  yet,  mad  as  a  sculptor. 
When  I  was  a  boy  I  was  insane  over  beauty,  especially 
plastic  beauty;  and  say  what  you  will,  Kelton,  of  your 
paintings  and  poems,  your  plays,  music,  romance — the 
one,  pure,  absolute,  final  art  is  sculpture." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  murmured  Kelton,  motioning  him 
out  of  the  path  of  Mrs.  Flannery's  ruthless  flail. 

But  Harbeson  was  incandescent  with  his  thought.  He 
went  on  regardless  of  the  encroaching  menace,  regardless 
even  of  his  usual  discretion  in  enthusiasm,  unwontedly 
extravagant  of  rhetoric: 

287 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"It's  the  flesh,  my  boy — the  flesh!  not  the  skin  only 
and  the  complexion,  not  the  eyes  and  the  expression 
merely,  but  the  muscles  beneath  the  clothes,  the  bones 
beneath  the  muscles,  the  marrow  inside  the  bones,  the 
soul  inside  the  marrow — all  that  marvelous  living  fabric 
of  strength,  suppleness,  grace!  None  of  your  daubs  on 
a  flat  canvas,  none  of  your  ink-slinging  descriptions  out 
of  the  dictionary,  but  the  flesh,  the  flesh ! — not  described, 
but  realized!  presented,  round,  full,  flexible,  projected 
into  three  dimensions — no,  into  four  dimensions,  for  the 
fourth  is  soul.  Why,  nobody  but  a  sculptor  begins  to 
know  what  real  beauty  is." 

"Too  bad  you  gave  up  art,  sir,"  Kelton  observed. 

"How  the  devil  did  you  find  that  out,  eh?"  Harbeson 
exclaimed.  "I  thought  it  was  a  secret  of  my  youth. 
Yes,  I  was  an  artist  once — long  ago — longer  than  I  like 
to  remember.  I  came  on  from  the  West.  Do  you  know, 
I  had  never  seen  real  art  then,  and  I  was  rather  prudish, 
I  suppose.  I  wanted  to  make  statues  of  generals  and 
horses  and  cowboys — everything  exact.  I  thought  mainly 
of  the  finish  of  the  buttons,  the  tassels  on  the  chairs, 
every  hair  on  the  chaps  of  the  cowboys.  The  finer  the 
detail  the  greater  the  art,  I  thought.  Then  I  came  East. 
I  wandered  into  this  very  museum.  It  was  like  being 
cremated  and  born  again.  When  I  saw  that  multitude 
of  Greek  statues  I  was  so  shocked  I  could  hardly  stand 
up.  They  hit  me  hard  as  simply  naked  and  indecent — 
the  shameless  monuments  of  a  foul-minded  race. 

"But  before  I  left  the  museum  I  had  a  new  soul,  I  was 
revolutionized.  I  began  to  see  the  enormous  difference 
between  being  stark  naked  and  divinely  nude.  The  whole 
world  was  new.  I  looked  at  men  and  women  with  a 
pair  of  eyes  from  which  the  scales  had  fallen — or  been 
put  on  again,  as  in  Eden.  I  saw  the  forms  through  the 

288 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

clothes — saw  the  people  themselves  within  their  clothes — 
with  neither  pruriency  nor  prudery,  but  with  artistic  and 
critical  appreciation  of  human  architecture — architecture 
that  breathes  and  moves  and  feels." 

To  Mrs.  Flannery  the  rhapsodist  was  only  a  pair  of 
feet  much  in  the  way.  She  flickered  her  mop  nearer  and 
nearer,  with  more  and  more  professional  authority,  until 
Kelton,  fearing  a  catastrophe,  took  Mr.  Harbeson  by  the 
arm  and  led  him  to  a  safer  spot.  But  he  could  not  lead 
Harbeson 's  mind  from  its  old  pasture: 

"I  was  poor  then,  Kelton,  poor  as  the  devil.  Lived 
on  coffee  and  rolls,  mostly — with  now  and  then  a  mad 
debauch  at  a  forty-cent  table  d'hdte,  wine  included — at 
least  they  called  it  wine." 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  ever  been  poor,  sir,"  said 
Kelton,  feeling  suddenly  more  at  ease  in  the  presence  of 
this  Maecenas. 

"Huh! — poor?  I  should  say  I  was !  And  I  didn't  like 
it.  I  used  to  say,  'If  I  could  only  get  leisure  in  some 
way,  so  as  to  do  the  things  I  want  to  do,  instead  of  the 
ghastly  old  things  that  will  sell' — only  they  didn't  sell. 
Just  a  few  years  ago  some  people  tried  to  get  me  to  endow 
a  poor  starving  sculptor,  a  genius  in  embryo.  I  said, 
'I'll  give  him  ten  dollars  a  week,  provided  nobody  else 
gives  him  any  more.'  They  thought  I  was  a  miser  and 
a  brute,  and  got  a  sentimental  woman  to  set  him  up  in 
comfort.  What's  the  result?  He  hasn't  done  anything 
worth  while  since.  I'd  have  saved  him  for  art;  but  he 
was  ruined — just  as  I  was — by  a  sentimental  woman." 

"A  sentimental  woman  ruined  you,  sir!" 

"Yes.  And  this  gallery  is  her  monument.  Bless  her 
heart,  her  intentions  were  good.  But  you  know  where 
good  intentions  are  used  for  asphalt.  There's  a  vast  dif 
ference,  my  boy,  between  sentimental  and  being  temper- 

289 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

amental.  You  see,  I  was  living  on  artistic  ideals  and 
ambition,  with  a  little  stale  bread.  Along  came  Miss 
Catherine  Weldon  and  asked  me  to  make  a  marble  bust 
of  her.  She  offered  me  a  hair-raising  price.  Later  I 
learned  that  it  was  a  charitable  ruse. 

"The  woman  tempted  me,  and  I  fell.  The  sittings  were 
numerous  and — well,  eventually  I  found  that  I  had  some 
how  dared  to  propose  to  her,  and  she  had  somehow  dared 
to  accept  me.  Her  wealthy  parents  raised  the  usual  row, 
and,  as  usual,  hastened  the  marriage.  My  wife  fitted  me 
up  a  gorgeous  studio  and  bought  me  a  frock-coat  and  a 
tall  hat,  and  I  began  to  talk  about  art  instead  of  digging 
at  it.  I  began  to  dabble  in  theories  instead  of  clay.  In 
due  time  the  studio  made  an  excellent  nursery  for  the 
children." 

"Too  bad!  Ts!  Ts!  Ts!"  clicked  Kelton,  in  sym 
pathetic  reproof. 

"Don't  think  I  am  so  beneath  contempt  as  to  be  slan 
dering  my  poor  dead  wife.  She  was  a  noble  woman — 
and  I  revere  her;  but — well,  she  wasn't  an  artist.  That 
is  not  a  criticism,  Kelton;  it  is  a  description.  She  was 
very  uneasy  when  I  had  a  model.  A  model  was  to  her 
simply  a  shameless  creature  on  parade.  Besides,  she 
didn't  like  to  have  the  children  grow  up  in — the  presence 
of  unclad  statuary." 

"Mrs.  Harbeson  was  from  New  England,  I  believe,  sir," 
Kelton  murmured,  hardly  meaning  to  be  satirical. 

"Very  much  from  New  England,"  assented  Harbeson; 
then  came  to  himself  with  a  start.  He  felt  alarmed  and 
ashamed,  as  one  who  realizes  that  he  has  been  blabbing 
in  his  sleep. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  should  have  poured  all  this  into 
your  ears,  Kelton,  except  that  artists  have  a  craze  for 
publishing  their  secret  feelings.  Please  forget  it.  I  have 

290 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

tried  to  live  down  my  artistic  past  and  atone  for  it  by 
taking  care  of  Mrs.  Harbeson's  property.  After  a  little 
practice  the  business  game  fascinated  me.  It's  an  art, 
too,  of  a  sort.  I  began  to  make  a  little  money  of  my 
own — I  caught  the  knack.  And  now  I  am  a  respectable 
citizen,  safe,  sane,  and  stupid — instead  of  a  crazy  artist." 

But  he  could  not  pose  as  a  Philistine  in  this  room. 
He  broke  out  again  with  the  frenzy  of  an  artist  before  an 
understanding  listener: 

"Once,  though,  it  was  my  idea  of  heaven  just  to  chisel 
the  splinters  of  stone  from  the  prisoner  rising  to  me — 
rising  to  me  from  the  marble!  Nobody  who  hasn't  been 
crazy  can  imagine  the  joy  of  taking  a  lump  of  shapeless, 
clammy  mud  and  with  a  few  sweeps  of  the  thumb  round 
ing  it  into  the  throat  of  a  goddess — or  the  breathing 
bosom  of  a  woman — or  the  eyelids  of  a  sleeping  beauty.'* 

His  hands  were  in  the  air,  giving  action  to  his  thought 
as  if  they  were  sentient  beings. 

"It's  playing  the  Creator  in  a  small  way,  sculpture  is," 
he  said.  "But  I'm  a  fallen  angel  now, Kelton.  My  fingers 
are  so  stiff  that  I  can  hardly  hold  the  coupon  scissors. 
The  other  day  I  was  in  a  fellow's  studio,  and  I  took  up 
a  piece  of  clay  to  make  a  head  of  it.  Ugh!  I  couldn't 
make  it  look  like  anything  but  a  mud  pie.  There  was 
a  time,  though!  There  was  a  time!" 

And  he  lapsed  into  a  luxury  of  remembrance.  Kelton 
seemed  to  be  hesitating  over  a  message,  and  finally  he 
said: 

"You've  led  up  very  neatly  to  the  surprise  I  had  in 
store  for  you,  Mr.  Harbeson." 

"Surprise?" 

"Yes.  A  few  days  ago  we  received  a  number  of  paint 
ings  and  statues  willed  to  us  by  James  Farwell." 

"  Oh  yes,  old  Farwell.    I  knew  him  well." 
20  291 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

"Among  the  statuary  was — what  do  you  suppose,  sir?" 

"I'm  no  good  at  conundrums,  Kelton." 

"A  statue  of  yours,  sir." 

"Of  me?" 

"By  you." 

"No!" 

"Yes." 

' '  Really !    Wh-what  was  the  name  of  it  ?" 

"There  was  nothing  on  it  except  'Harbeson  sculpsit.1 " 

"The  one  Latin  word  I  used  to  know!  Well,  well, 
Harbeson  sculpsit!  I  used  to  expect  to  scratch  that  on 
something  that  would  defy  the  ages." 

"I  rather  think  you  did,  sir.  This  statue  of  yours  is  a 
pretty  good  bit." 

"You  don't  say  so!    What  did  it  represent?" 

"A  crouching  nymph,  sir." 

"Oh,  I  remember.  It  was  the  one  ideal  thing  that  I 
ever  really  finished.  Mrs.  Harbeson  hated  it  because  it 
was  so  scantily  draped  and  because — I  believe  there  was 
a  certain  amount  of  gossip  at  the  time  about  the  model 
who  posed  for  it.  So  I  gave  it  to  Farwell  for  a  wedding 
present.  That  was  ages  ago.  Lord!  but  she  was  a 
beauty,  the  model!  Her  name  was — er — what  was  her 
name?  Let  me  see!  I'm  afraid  it's  gone  from  me  for 
the  moment.  But  I'd  know  her  if  I  met  her  anywhere. 
She  was  a  beauty.  She  was  ignorant  and  illiterate,  but 
her  flesh  was  divine.  She  had  a  good  heart,  too — a  wild, 
loving,  laughing  way.  What  was  her  name?  It's  hide 
ous  to  grow  old — and  forget.  And  to  think  I  could  forget 
her  name,  of  all!" 

His  memory  was  in  such  a  desperate  wrestle  with  itself 
that  Kelton  intervened. 

"Would  you  care  to  see  the  statue,  sir?" 

* '  Care  ?  Would  a  mother  care  to  see  a  long-lost  child  ?" 

292 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

"It's  right  here,  sir.  I  put  it  in  this  room  as  a  surprise 
to  you." 

Kelton  went  to  a  shapeless  heap  of  canvas  over  a  ped 
estal  in  the  center  of  the  gallery.  He  reached  out  to 
lift  the  muffler,  but  Harbeson  checked  him. 

"Wait  a  minute,  man.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  about  to  see 
the  dead  brought  back  to  life.  What  if  I  shouldn't  like 
it  now?  What  if  it  should  rob  me  of  my  one  illusion — 
that  I  spoiled  a  great  sculptor  to  make  a  third-rate  capi 
talist?  Wait  a  minute,  please.  I — I  think  I'll  just  sit 
down." 

He  sank  on  a  leather-covered  bench.  He  was  shaking 
from  head  to  foot. 

"So  she's  under  that  cloth,  eh?  Just  a  minute,  if  you 
don't  mind.  Ah,  now!" 

Kelton  whipped  the  canvas  away  and  unveiled  a  little 
wonder-work  of  dreaming  marble,  a  nymph  that  crouched 
on  a  tuffet  of  moss  and  smiled  an  eerie  smile. 

Kelton  looked  at  the  sculptor  with  fatherly  amusement 
and  found  him  struck  motionless.  He  was  all  eyes. 

"Not  half  bad,  eh?"  queried  Kelton. 

"Not  half  bad?"  Harbeson  echoed.  "Why,  man,  it's 
— it's  wonderful.  It's  great!"  He  moved  toward  it  as 
if  it  had  him  under  a  spell.  He  walked  round  and  round 
it  with  religious  awe,  murmuring,  "And  did  I — did  these 
hands — really  carve  that?/ 

"It  has  your  name  on  it,  sir." 

Harbeson  paused.  Nothing  could  express  him  but  Doc 
tor  Johnson's  phrase,  "My  God !  what  a  genius  I  was  then !" 

He  was  filled  with  an  afflation  of  pride,  the  inalienable 
rapture  of  a  creator  seeing  that  his  work  was  good. 

"I  remember  it  now — so  well,"  he  murmured.  "My 
teacher  gave  me  that  block  of  marble.  It  was  an  odd 
shape.  He  couldn't  use  it.  But  I  seemed  to  see  that 

293 


LONG    EVER   AGO 

little  nymph  crouching  inside  it,  calling  to  me,  'Let  me 
out!  Let  me  out!' 

"As  I  saw  her  in  my  vision  she  resembled  a  certain 
model,  who  only  posed  draped.  I  remember  I  had  a  ter 
rible  time  persuading  her  to  pose  for  this.  But  I  suc 
ceeded.  I  hardly  stopped  to  eat  or  sleep.  The  model  fell 
into  the  mood,  understood,  and  was  tireless.  She  was  a 
heroine  in  her  way.  She  actually  collaborated  with  me. 
Her  body  was  as  necessary  there  as  my  vision.  And  to 
think  that  I  can't  remember  her  name!  It's  shameful. 
It's  dishonest !  What  becomes  of  the  old  models,  anyway, 
Kelton?" 

"Where  are  the  snows  of  yesteryear?" 

"That's  true.  Where  are  they?  But  if  they  had  their 
rights  they'd  not  be  forgotten,  these  models.  Their  names 
ought  to  be  carved  on  the  statues  alongside  the  sculptors'. 
As  well  omit  an  actress's  name  from  a  playbill.  And 
now  even  I  can't  remember  her  name." 

Kelton  looked  at  him  with  an  amiable,  condescending 
smile. 

"So  you  are  a  little  surprised?"  he  said. 

"Surprised?  I'm  thunderstruck!  You  can't  realize 
what  you've  done  for  me!" 

He  wrung  the  curator's  hand  so  heartily  that  Kelton 
winced.  Then  a  silence  ensued,  Harbeson  staring  at  the 
statue,  Kelton  feeling  very  much  out  of  place.  The 
sculptor,  the  statue,  and  he  were  three — a  crowd. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  sir,  I'm  needed  in  the  office.  I'll 
leave  you  alone  with  her." 

Harbeson  absently  assented.  "Thank  you,  Kelton.  I 
won't  detain  you." 

When  Kelton  was  gone  Harbeson  remained  leaning  on 
the  pedestal,  gloating  over  every  plane,  every  profile, 
musing  on  every  muscle  and  tendon.  His  very  hands 

294 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

remembered  their  former  paths  and  he  modeled   the 
enveloping  air  with  a  kind  of  sensuousness. 

He  was  too  deeply  engaged  to  notice  that  Mrs.  Flan- 
nery  was  still  in  the  room.  He  did  not  hear  the  swish 
of  her  brush,  nor  her  heavy  breathing,  as  she  agonized 
about  at  her  penitential  trade.  Finally,  with  such  a 
rush  of  affection  as  the  father  of  the  prodigal  felt  when 
he  saw  his  boy  on  the  hills,  Harbeson  bent  forward  and 
kissed  the  home-come  statue  on  the  bewitching  mouth. 
The  lips  of  stone  seemed  to  warm  and  respond,  as  if  her 
soul  came  back  to  his.  He  bent  his  head  on  his  hands 
and  wept,  the  dry-eyed,  silent  grief  of  a  man  who  has 
forgotten  how  to  cry. 

There  Mrs.  Flannery  found  him  when  she  made  the 
last  circuit.  As  she  worked  round  the  base  of  the  ped 
estal  she  was  confronted  by  the  same  troublesome  pair 
of  feet.  She  rapped  the  tiles  warningly,  with  no  effect. 
Coughed.  No  effect. 

''Excuse  me,  sor,"  she  said.  "I  say,  excuse  me,  sor, 
but  I — I've  got  to  finish  this  job." 

No  answer.  She  tapped  Harbeson 's  foot  with  the  edge 
of  her  scrubbing-brush.  He  looked  down  in  a  daze. 

"Good  heavens!    Where  did  you  come  from?" 

"Sure,  and  ain't  I  workin'  here  the  lasht  half -hour? 
Would  you  excuse  me  just  for  wan  minyute?" 

Reluctantly  Harbeson  moved  away,  went  into  the  em 
brasure  of  a  window,  and  gazed  out,  not  at  what  he  saw, 
but  at  what  he  dimly  recalled. 

Mrs.  Flannery  polished  to  a  radiance  the  last  inch  of 
floor.  Then  she  sat  back  on  her  heels  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  rubbing  her  weary  back.  She  noted  a  fleck  of 
plaster  on  the  pedestal  before  her,  scraped  it  with  her 
finger-nail,  dabbed  it  with  a  damp  cloth,  decided  that 
the  whole  pedestal  needed  attention.  Beginning  at  the 

295 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

base,  she  worked  her  way  round  and  round  it,  with  her 
customary  spiral  progress.     She  was  crooning  again: 

"And  you're  welkim  all,  heartily  welkim — 

"O  Mother  o'  God!  it's  you!  O  Mother  o'  God,  it's 
you!" 

Her  wild  cry  startled  Harbeson  out  of  his  reverie.  He 
whirled  round  to  see  the  scrubwoman,  in  frantic  agita 
tion,  caressing  his  statue  and  wailing  like  a  keener  at  a 
wake. 

Harbeson  turned  to  her. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"It's  meself  that's  there,"  she  shrilled.  "It's  me! 
That's  the  ghost  of  me  when  I  was  a  colleen."  Then 
she  forgot  him  as  she  clutched  the  little  shoulders  of  the 
nymph.  "Oh,  you  heart's  child,  you!  Oh,  my  dairlin' 
that  you  are!  It's  too  cold  here  for  the  likes  of 
you."  She  whipped  off  her  apron  and  covered  the  chill 
marble. 

"Don't  do  that!"  snapped  Harbeson,  as  much  out  of 
his  head  as  she,  and  he  snatched  the  cloth  away. 

The  woman  struggled  for  it.  "It's  me,  I  tell  you.  I 
posed  for  that.  I  wint  hoongry  and  cold  while  the  artist 
sculped  it.  Lord  love  him,  he  was  that  poor." 

Harbeson  stared  at  her  in  angry  incredulity. 

' '  You  posed  for  that  ?    You !    Who  are  you  ? ' ' 

"Mrs.  Michael  Flannery." 

"That  wasn't  her  name.    You  can't  fool  me." 

"I'm  Peggy  O'Donnell  that  was." 

Harbeson 's  face  lighted  up  as  the  name  rekindled  his 
memory.  "That's  her  name.  But  you — you're  not 
Peggy." 

He  forgot  even  to  conceal  his  contempt;  but  she  met 
it  with  unresisting  meekness. 

296 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

"No,  but  I  used  to  be.  Now  I'm  only  old  Mrs.  Flan- 
nery,  the  scrub.  But  I  was  like  this  once,  and  he  told 
me  it  didn't  do  me  justice,  at  that.  He  loved  me,  he 
did.  And  now  look  at  me!" 

The  contrast  was  sublimely  ridiculous,  unendurable. 
Harbeson  would  not  have  it. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  tell  me  you're  Peggy  O'Donnell!" 

"The  divil  fly  away  wit'  you,  what  would  you  know 
of  it?" 

"I  am  the  man  that  carved  this  statue!"  Harbeson 
answered,  with  the  pomposity  of  achievement. 

Now  it  was  Mrs,  Flannery's  turn  to  scoff. 

"You — you  an  artist?  A  prim,  old,  pinched-up  spal 
peen  like  you,  an  artist?  Why,  he  had  long  hair  wit' 
curls — they  were  always  droppin'  over  his  eyes;  and  he 
wore  a  dirty  old  velvet  coat,  and  a  string  tie  that  looked 
like  he  slept  in  it.  And  he  had  a  young,  smilin'  way — 
and  the  two  eyes  of  him !  You  him?  Why —  But  listen, 
now;  if  you're  the  man  you  can  tell  me  how  it  all  came 
about." 

Harbeson  was  too  much  unnerved  to  resent  the  insinua 
tion.  He  ransacked  his  memory. 

"Well,  Peggy  O'Donnell  was  the  daughter  of  a  scrub 
woman.  Peggy  was  a  beauty.  I  asked  her  to  pose  for 
me.  But  she'd  only  blush  and  say,  'No/  Finally  she 
consented  just  to  wear  a  low-necked  gown." 

"For  the  bust  of  a  society  leddy,"  Peggy  interrupted. 

"Who  was  too  busy  to  pose  every  day,"  Harbeson 
added. 

"And  he  married  her  afterward,"  said  Mrs.  Flannery, 
darkly. 

But  Harbeson  did  not  hear,  in  the  onrush  of  his 
thoughts.  "My  teacher  gave  me  a  block  of  marble. 
I  saw  a  statue  in  it.  I  made  Peggy  see  it.  She  got 

297 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

excited,  too.  So  I  put  off  finishing  the  bust  of  the  rich 
woman — though  I  needed  the  money." 

"He  did  need  it,"  said  Peggy,  stubbornly  clinging  to 
the  third  person. 

"And  I  asked  Peggy  to  pose  for  the  statue.  But  she 
wouldn't.  I  implored  her.  But  she  wouldn't." 

"Irish  colleens  is  wild  things,  but  they  have  clane 
hearts." 

"I  told  her  it  was  for  the  cause  of  art  and  beauty, 
but  she  wouldn't  pose." 

"That  I  wouldn't." 

"Then  I  begged  her  for  the  sake  of  my  ambition.  And 
she  cried  a  little.  But  she  wouldn't.  And  then  I  said, 
'For  the  love  of  me,  Peggy,  will  you?'" 

"And  I  did.    For  the  love  of— of  him." 

"I  remember  now  how  scared  she  was,  how  she  hid 
and  begged  me  not  to  make  her  pose;  but  finally  she 
came  out  from  the  screen,  hiding  her  eyes  and  drawing 
her  hair  about  her.  And  she  was  like — all  the  beauty 
in  the  world,  like  music  for  the  eyes.  And  she  blushed 
so  hard." 

"I'm  blushin'  now  to  think  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Flannery, 
in  a  voice  too  low  for  him  to  hear. 

"But  I  told  her  there  was  no  reason  for  her  to  blush. 
It  was  the  noblest  use  a  woman  could  make  of  the  beauty 
God  gave  her.  And  then  I  began  the  statue." 

"Go  on;  you're  remimberin'  it  right.  But  are  you 
remimberin'  annything  of  the  money?" 

"The  money?  Oh  yes,  Peggy  wouldn't  take  it.  And 
there  was  mighty  little  left.  And  that  gave  out,  and  I 
had  a  hard  scramble  for  food." 

"It  was  hungry  we  used  to  go  in  thim  days.  But  what 
did  we  care?  We  was  young,  the  both  of  us." 

"And  it  grew  cold,  too.  And  I  couldn't  keep  up  a 

298 


IMMORTAL    YOUTH 

good  fire.  But  Peggy  insisted  on  posing.  And  the  last 
day —  But  if  you're  Peggy,  you'll  remember." 

He  stopped  short,  defiantly — and  Mrs.  Flannery  caught 
the  torch  from  his  hand  and  ran  on: 

"You — he  was  finishin'  it,  workin'  like  one  gone  mad. 
And  he  forgot  the  time — forgot  me — forgot  the  cold. 
And  I  waited  there,  unwillin'  to  spake  a  word  to  wake 
him,  and  I  grew  colder  and  colder.  Faith,  I  turned  blue ! 
And  I  shivered  so  he  would  have  noticed  it,  only  it  grew 
darker  and  darker.  It  was  that  that  he  noticed  first — 
the  darkness.  He  worked  till  he  couldn't  see;  and  thin 
he  yells — I  can  hear  him  now:  'Peggy,  it's  finished!  it's 
finished!  we're  immortal,  you  and  me!'  and  thin — if  you're 
the  man,  you'll  not  be  after  forgettin'  that." 

Harbeson  took  up  the  relay.  "All  the  answer  I  got 
was  a  little  sigh.  I  ran  to  Peggy — and  she  had  fainted 
away.  I  wrapped  her  up  in  some  costumes  and  blankets. 
Then  I  kissed  her,  and  we  were  both  sort  of  crying  and 
laughing  at  the  same  time." 

"Yes,  and  thin?— and  thin?" 

The  scrubwoman's  face  was  illumined  as  if  she  stood 
in  a  sunset.  But  Harbeson  did  not  see  her;  he 
went  on: 

"And  then  I  ran  out  and  borrowed  some  money  of  a 
friend,  and  Peggy  and  I  blew  ourselves  to — " 

"A  table  dee  hote!  wit'  wine!" 

"That's  right.  We  were  young  and  we  were  crazy, 
and  we  loved  each  other.  What  else  mattered?" 

Blinded  with  the  far  focus  of  his  eyes,  he  saw  only 
the  mirage  of  Peggy,  and  his  groping  fingers  caught  the 
gnarled  knuckles  of  Mrs.  Flannery  in  a  clutch  of  rapt 
ure.  The  scrubwoman's  ancientness  fell  from  her  and 
her  dusty  heartstrings  jangled  like  an  old  harpsichord. 
But  when  her  eyes  opened  she  looked  down  at  her  corded 

299 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

forearms.     She  was  wrenched  back  from  the  clouds  and 
she  groaned. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven,  mind  what  you're  doin'!  If 
annybody  should  see  us  what  would  they  say  of  you? 
Oh,  and  I  was  almost  thinkin*  I  was  back  in  thim  days, 
and  whin  I  wake  up — look  at  me!" 

Harbeson's  mood  was  too  tender  to  acknowledge  her 
crudities.  He  smiled  at  her  gently  and  answered: 

"But  look  at  me!  I  think  I've  drifted  farther  away 
than  you  have,  Peggy  darlint." 

"That's  what  he — what  you  used  to  call  me,"  she  mur 
mured,  with  a  strange  radiance  among  her  features. 
Harbeson  felt  the  glow  of  this  Indian  summer,  and  he 
groaned  aloud. 

"If  I  could  only  have  sold  that  statue  I  should  have 
put  your  beauty  into  a  hundred  masterpieces,  Peggy. 
Why  would  nobody  look  at  my  work?  And  I  got  poorer 
and  poorer.  And  that  rich  woman  came  back  to  have 
the  bust  finished,  and — and  I  married  her,  Peggy." 

"It's  well  I  know  that.  Didn't  I  go  away  and  throw 
meself  in  the  river  the  same  night." 

"  No !  No  I"  he  cried  with  a  tremor  of  dread.  ' '  What 
a  dog  I  was!  I  never  dreamed  of  that." 

"Don't  fret  over  it  now,"  Peggy  smiled,  all  motherly. 
"Sure  and  I  didn't  drown — more's  the  pity.  Somebody 
fished  me  out  and  brought  me  back  to  life.  I  come  nearer 
goin'  to  jail  than  to  heaven,  for  the  attimpt  at  suicidin'. 
But  the  judge  gave  me  a  solemn  tank  and  let  me  go  whin 
I  promised  not  to  try  it  again.  But  I  couldn't  stand 
the  sight  of  a  stoodio  anny  more.  I  hated  the  word  ar 
tist — thin.  I  went  back  to  me  own  kind — coal-heavers 
and  the  like  of  that.  It  was  thin  I  met  Flannery." 

"And  he  married  you?" 

"Yis." 

300 


IMMORTAL   YOUTH 

"It  was  like  Venus  being  married  to  Vulcan." 

"Venus!  Humph!  It  wasn't  long  that  I  was  a  Venus 
after  I  took  to  supportin'  Flannery.  He  bate  the  Venus 
blood  out  o'  me." 

"He  beat  you!  He  dared  to  beat  Peggy  O'Donnell!" 
Harbeson  gasped,  unable  to  believe. 

Peggy  laughed.  She  raised  the  lock  of  hair  and  showed 
the  scar. 

"Not  with  his  fists  only,"  she  said. 

"Where  is  he?     I  could  kill  him  for  that !" 

"You'll  have  to  kill  the  dead,  then.  Sure  and  whisky 
got  to  him  before  you,  only  a  short  time  ago." 

4 'And  he  left  you  nothing?" 

"Nothing  but  a  little  more  room  and  a  chance  to  spind 
me  own  earnin's." 

Harbeson 's  head  drooped  under  a  load  of  shame  as  he 
realized  what  his  own  neglect  had  meant  to  the  goddess 
of  his  youth.  He  felt  guilty  of  a  crueler  crime  against 
her  than  anything  Flannery  had  done. 

As  he  sat  bent  with  the  weight  of  remorse  Mrs.  Flan 
nery  studied  him.  The  incense  of  remembered  dreams 
faded  from  her  mind.  Harbeson  became  once  more  the 
capitalist ;  she  once  more  was  Mrs.  Flannery. 

"I've  loafed  long  enough,"  she  said,  briskly,  picking 
up  her  scepter,  the  mop.  "I  must  get  on  wit*  me  scrub- 
bin'.  Good-by  to  you,  sor." 

Harbeson  reached  out  and  caught  her  arm  impulsively. 

"You'll  never  scrub  again,  Peggy — never!  It's  pretty 
late  in  the  day  for  me  to  try  to  make  up  to  you  for  all 
you've  lost,  but  I'll  do  my  best.  You  shall  have  every 
thing  now  that  you  ought  to  have  had  then.  I  couldn't 
buy  it  for  you  then,  but  I  can  now.  And  I'm  going  to 
see  that  you  never  want  for  anything  more,  Peggy 
O'Donnell." 

301 


LONG   EVER   AGO 

She  looked  at  him  with  bewilderment.  Her  eyelids 
clenched  tightly,  but  big  tears  welled  through  them. 

"I  shall  never  want  for  annything  more,  did  you  say? 
Oh,  sorra  the  day!  Can  you  get  me  back  me  youth, 
and  the  beauty  I'm  after  losin'  so  long  ago?  Can  you?" 

He  drew  her  to  the  pedestal  where  the  little  nymph 
crouched  in  her  ambrosial  perfections.  He  said: 

"They're  here,  Peggy — your  beauty — my  love — our 
youth.  We  three  were  all  young  together,  and  now  you 
and  I  are — what  we  are,  Peggy.  But  she'll  be  smiling 
just  like  this  when  we  are  dust  in  our  graves.  Art  is 
immortal  youth,  Peggy,  and  eternal  love.  I'm  going  to 
carve  your  name  here  alongside  of  mine.  And  when  this 
old  city  falls  in  ruins  they'll  carry  our  little  nymph  to 
some  new  city,  and  she  shall  be  young  and  slender  and 
smiling  and  beautiful — for  our  sakes,  Peggy  darlint,  for 
ever  and  ever  and  ever.  Amen!" 

This  was  a  trifle  abstruse  for  Peggy,  but  she  had  her 
own  joy  of  the  thought,  for  she  said: 

"I  had  no  childer  by  Flannery,  exceptin*  two  poor  little 
sickly  waifs  that  died  in  their  cradles — praise  be!  I'd 
kind  o'  like  to  think  that  this  is  our  child — yours  and 
mine — and  will  live  long  after  us — always  young,  always 
like  me  whin  I  was  Peggy  O'Donnell — and  beautiful — and 
you  loved  me." 


THE    END 


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